


Reminiscence (Larry Stylinson One Shot)

by ElyseWeasley



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Death, Holocaust, Homophobia, Infant Death, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElyseWeasley/pseuds/ElyseWeasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Harry I've done so much wrong."</p><p>Harry's quiet for a moment.  "I don't think it matters how much you've done wrong because maybe you're different.  Maybe you'll fix it with doing things right.</p><p>The smoldering look Louis gives him says a number of things. "You'll just be the one thing I do right then."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminiscence (Larry Stylinson One Shot)

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 22, 336
> 
> Author's Note:
> 
> This took me a month to write. I don't think it's up to par with what I was hoping, and I'll probably redo it eventually. I don't know, just let me know.
> 
> EDIT: 2016
> 
> Please read before you assume anything about a text. I am 100000000000000000% not romanticizing the Holocaust in any way, shape, or form. I actually detail how horrific it is. As someone who did two fucking years of research before writing this story, and a descendant of a Holocaust survivor, I suggest you learn to differentiate between "romanticizing/censorship" and historical fiction. 
> 
> For the rest of you, thank you for the kind words. As something I wrote three years ago, I never expected the positive reception this received. 
> 
> Just be carefully guys, it's pretty graphic.

**_This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine._ **

**_This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine._ **

**_This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine,_ **

**_Let it shine, Let it shine, Let it shine._ **

His nimble, elongated fingers are curled around his scrawny legs in the fetal position upon the ground.  Every inhale burns his lungs as every exhale shows his flimsy, strangled breath.  The shivers rack his body in horrifying tremors, and his once optimistic eyes are coming to a close while he wonders when the world went wrong.  Things have always been hard on him, but this was the celestial low point of his existence.

_“You are so cold,” the boy whispers as he cuddles against his father.  “You said the cold was going to stop.”_

_He brushes a feather light kiss to the skin of his forehead.  “It will stop, but I won’t get warm.”  His hand winds around his son’s shoulder.  “You’re going to experience a lot of cold Harry, but you’ve got to find the warmth for me, understand?  There will be times where it seems like Hell is freezing over and God himself can’t even start the fire, but you’ve got to be that light.  Harry, you promise me you can do that?”_

_“Yes, I think I can,” Harry mumbles, sleeping beside his father who would die before he woke up._

Harry curls further into himself.  His father talked of the cold but he’d never thought it’d be like this.  He’d never thought it would mean he’d have this raw feeling in fingers, or that everything would start to go numb.  Harry hadn’t expected for people to shun him or abuse him, and he certainly didn’t expect to have to fight for his life at every given moment.

But worst of all, he hadn’t expected the light to give out, for the heat to suddenly disappear.  Yet it had, leaving him icy and alone in the depths of a never ending chasm of black, deathly snow.

A blood filled cough rises in the abrasive lining of his throat, scratching as it makes its way to his cracked lips.  The feeling as he heaves scorches his lungs in an icy fire, and it costs him so much energy that he can’t even open his eyelids.   Trying to shield his body from the oncoming wind, Harry buries his hands in his hair and pulls his feet up as tight as he can. 

The wind is not just empty air, but a contamination of ash, soot, and a ruthless chill.  For a moment it carries its course in one direction, before spiraling around him as it carries the dust that will stain his skin and give a toxic taint to his blood stream.  The breeze may run for a moment, but the after effects stay with him many hours after it’s over.

The scramble of feet let’s Harry know that he needs to move.  His bones are heavy, with their thin, sickly appearance.  His ragged skin that clings in any place it can seems to droop like lead weights he can’t get rid of.  It takes every ounce of his strength to move steadily towards the road and sit alongside a house.  People scurry pass him without a second glance, something he’s grown all but accustomed too.

“Water,” he begs, the plea hoarse and broken.  Just a drip will do, he thinks to himself, just a drop to ease the pain.  “P-Please,” this time it’s a shiver that interrupts him, one that causes sporadic movements up his arms and down his back.

                His chartreuse irises that once twinkled with a sanguine perspective have chilled to despondency.  People pass him without a second thought or a passing glance.  It takes all his resistance not to break down because giving up wouldn’t hurt this much, wouldn’t cause his lungs to heave and his fingers to tremble.   “I’ll die,” he entreats, “please don’t let me die”.

                A bitter old woman snickers as she walks, “and you’ll deserve it too”.  As if the remark is not enough, she comes closer and spits on him.  It’s demeaning and horrible and really, all he wanted was just a tiny sip of water.  He wipes it from his face, it catches on his glove, and he’s scared it’ll freeze there.

                He watches her feet as she scurries away, the click of her shoes smacking against the street.  Cringing, it begins to palpate against his brain, and he doesn’t know what the sound does to him but suddenly he can’t breathe.   The dirt is swirling in his lungs, collecting at the sides and threatening to sew them together permanently.  His throat is stitched by the blood that curdles within his skin and he’s heaving, trying to make it all stop.  He didn’t want this.  He never thought it’d become this.

                _“I promise I’m still Harry! Please, I promise!”  The people swirl around him in blurs, the distinction of friend and enemy becoming a hazy line.  He thought if he pleaded his case they would understand and stop saying those horrible things.  He hadn’t imagined that they’d begin to aim the invectives at him._

_His mother looks at him with disgust, the scorn broiling in her pupils in a blaze of fury.  “Get out,” her tone is heavy with hatred.  “Don’t you ever come back.”_

_“B-But Papa, he…” The words physically hurt but he continues, “Papa understood”._

_“He’s also dead,” she spits, shoving him out of the house by gripping the back of his shirt.  “You get out of here, you,” she pauses, thinks to bite her tongue but then she doesn’t, “_ faggot.  _Get out of here.”_

_Suddenly he’s cold and lonely and wet, feet freezing to the snow covered ground.  His sister peaks from the window, hiding her face behind the long fabric of the curtain.  For a single second she looks at him with sincerity before she snaps it shut once again._

_“I’m still Harry,” it sounds hollow, “it’s still me”._

The blood drips in single drops from the corner of his mouth.  Trying to conserve his energy, or maybe it’s just because he’s finally beginning to fade, he doesn’t even wipe it away.  He can feel it staining the ground around him as he lay still, unable to convince himself to move.  The memories leave him dizzy, confused, hurt, broken, and all he wants is to be held by his Mama, and for his Papa to still be alive, and to take back telling anyone that he didn’t love girls.

                He takes an exaggerated blink and in that amount of time a little girl has come to him.  Her blonde waves spiral down her dress in elusive curls, creating a faux halo around her against the cloudy backdrop.  Blue eyes twinkling in innocent curiosity, she decides to kneel before him.

                “Are you okay sir?” He tries to form words but his mouth sticks with blood.  The girl seems to understand and grabs a rag from a pocket in her dress.  Her fingers are gentle as she wipes it from his mouth, helping him to a sitting position.  “Take some water sir,” she demands softly, looking seven and sounding much older.

                The liquid seems to revive life in his dust coated mouth and he wants to drink all she offers him but stops himself.  He won’t take so much from her, not a little girl.  She needs it much more than he does.

                She seems dissatisfied when he doesn’t take more but doesn’t comment on it.  “Why are you sleeping out here?”  Her numb, blue, frost bitten hands brush hair from her face. The sight is enough to make Harry’s heart ache. 

                “People,” it takes him a second to remember how to form words, “people don’t like me”.  He doesn’t know how to shield her from the world so he doesn’t, instead giving her the brutal truth.

                It’s only then does he notice the yellow star shamefully embroidered onto her dress.  Her working fingers run across it absentmindedly it seems; it’s become a part of her.   Her maturity fades as she remembers that it’s there, and she pulls her hands away.  “Like they don’t like me?” she questions, so innocently it hurts to hear.

                “In a way,” he grabs at his shirt, the same side as the girl.   The absence of the symbol is noted by his companion.  “They just don’t like me for different reasons.”

                “What did you do wrong?”

                Harry wrinkles his brow.  “I don’t think I did anything wrong, just like you didn’t.”  A sickly coughs escapes his parted lips; the water couldn’t even fix it.  “People,” he pauses, “people just don’t quite understand us”.

                Before she can comment further an older woman is grabbing at her hands, mumbling curse words under her breath.  Her eyes, tinged with black bags, seem to emit a growl as she glares at Harry.  “Did he hurt you?”

                She quickly shakes her head, hanging on to the end of her mother’s dress.  “No Mama,” she shifts a step towards him, “he’s like me.  They don’t like him either.”  Harry can almost feel it as the mother scans over him.

                “He’s lying to you.  He doesn’t know anything.”  The tone packs a vicious bite because the woman does not understand that he’s feeling everything she is.

                Frustrated, the little girl wrenches her hand away.  “No Mama, you don’t understand!”  She stands closer to him.  “Tell her, tell her that you didn’t do anything wrong!”

                The mother eyes him warily.  “Spit it out then.”

                Harry plays with his fingers that are coated with soot and blood.  He can’t look at her, can’t handle enough remark or being spit at again or hearing that _word_ uttered from another tongue.  “I fell in love with a man.  And so they told me to die.”

                He waits for the sting, the smack, the anything but instead the woman leans before him too.  “Did you give him water,” her voice is comforting now, almost like his mother used to sound.  When the little girl nods, she looks at him again.  “Give him just a little bit more.”

                “I-I couldn’t,” his own voice betrays him however, scratchy from the desire, “you need-d it.  More than I do.”  The flaming tongues of the cold nip from inside, scorching his throat because he _needs_ that water and he _can’t_ take it.

                The woman pays him no mind instead lifting the container to his lips and pressing it there firmly.  Harry takes a tentative sip and tries to pull away, only to be berated by a kind look that tells him to take another.  “Before all of this I wouldn’t have helped you,” her voice is a murmur so her daughter doesn’t hear.  “But now I know better.”  Like a mother she brushes his greasy curls from his face, dainty and delicate as they run down the side of his cheek.  “And now I know that you don’t deserve this anymore than we do.”

                It seems an eternity that they stare at each other, the understanding passing through them telepathically.  This war has changed everything, and sticking together, being there for others, is the only thing that’s going to keep them alive.

                “Thank you,” and it’s for the water but it’s for everything else too.  And then he says, “I’m sorry,” because this isn’t fair and it’s not right and it shouldn’t be happening.  “I’m sorry.”

                The second her lips part the footsteps can be heard.  They pound against the streets in a sickening rhythm that has both of them scared to the core.  They don’t know what happens when they take you away; they just know you never come back.

                “I-I, we,” she begins to try to stand and almost topples backwards.  Harry uses all of his strength to steady her by her ankles.  He grabs at the brick behind him and stands, pointing her towards the tunnel.  “Go,” he wheezes, “just don’t look back”.

                “Aren’t you coming with us?” the little girl finally speaks as her mother rushes her away.  “No Mama, we can’t leave him.”

                Footsteps descending faster, the calls echoing within his ears, everything shaking, and he knows he has no choice but to yell.  “GO,” it hurts but they can’t die too, “GO NOW”.  And the little girl looks as though she’ll cry but he has to.  He can’t let them die.  Not when she hasn’t even lived.

                The mother has to scoop her up to carry her away because she’s pounding on her back and reaching for Harry.  “Momma, don’t let him die, please! Momma, we can’t-” Her wails echo in the air until he is forced to remember them for himself.  Because he knows he’s going to die, and he’s glad at least once person, for one moment, cared about him.

                When he thinks to run, they’ve already got him.  Their hands grip the back of his shirt and drag him towards the center of the road, until he’s forced to support himself on his knees.  His minds reeling, the tears are sprouting in his eyes, and he’s begging.  “Please, I’ll change.  Please, I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

                Someone grips the front of his shirt, tugging him upwards.  “Get up,” it demands, pulling him to his height.   If Harry wasn’t so weak he would have been taller, but his back has acquired a permanent hunch.   He tilts his head up slightly, catching the eyes of his accuser.

                Blue.  Everyone around him has blue eyes but not like his.  These have wisps of grey that churn around the pupils, the burden of thousands of secrets that can never be surrendered.  It’s blinding as he looks into them because they are so _pretty_ yet so _immoral._ The soldier’s eyes are cold and bloodthirsty and the fact that something so beautiful can be so malevolent has Harry shaking again.

                He’s shuffled in a line, like a prisoner.  Then he realizes he is one, a prisoner because he couldn’t be like anyone else even if he tried.   Cold spreads from his feet throughout his entire body, not because he’s barefoot-all his toes have lost feeling-but because for the first time he’s scared.  The pure terror makes his knees wobble in a way that sends him spiraling towards the ground again. 

                Again the man with the blue eyes is growling down at him.  “I won’t tell you again,” and even his voice seems innocent.  Yet the words drip in the thick, horrible evil that transformed this boy into someone who could have been angel, to one of the strongest forms of the devil.

                The snow starts to fall in brief iridescent coils against his back.  White is purity and life except where he lives, because this white will be grey and that grey will become black, and the black means that despite the brightness before, you’ll eventually fall into the impenetrable vortex of death that tugs at you with every step you take.  His eyelids close shut as they shuffle him along.  In times like this he has to remind himself _left foot, right foot, left, right, breathe in, breathe out, and in and out…_

 _“And in and out, come on Harry you’re too slow!  Your breathing is all off!”_   _Harry scurries as fast as he can after his much faster sister.  She’s teasing in a playful way before she sees the dejected look on her brother’s face.  “Don’t give up Harry, come on, it’s just a little ways back to the house.”_

_“But it hurts,” he whines, his pace already slowing.  “Gemma, it’s too hard.  I can’t!”_

_She gives him a look.  “Harry, don’t ever give up.  Now you have to do it or else you’re a loser.”_

_“I’m a loser,” he takes a shallow breath, “because I can’t run as far as you?”_

_Gemma turns slightly to look at him as she runs.  “No,” she says between pants, “losers are the ones that give up before it’s all over.”_

“I’m not a loser,” Harry says, trying to straighten his back.  Even as he takes in the image of wooden cart that they are shoving people in against their will, and even when he _becomes_ one of those people, he listens to his sister.  He’s not going to be a loser.  He’s not going to give up.

                He turns around to catch his last glimpse of the light for he doesn’t know how long.  It sort of looms over him, the realization that this could be the last time he sees his town again.  And later he finds it cruel that the last thing he’ll see of it is the glare of the blue eyed soldier who took it all away from him.

                The door _screeches_ shut and then he’s enveloped in darkness.  Harry hugs himself and leans back against the wall because it’s finally clicked.  _This is happening.  And he’s alone._

“Where are we going?” He doesn’t know how he picks out this particular sound against all the crying, but he does.  “Can we go home?”

                “Maybe later darling, maybe.”

                _Maybe._

And that’s when Harry starts crying.

~  ~  ~

                They are kept in that compartment for four days.  No water.  No food.  No bathroom.  They are stuck banging on the walls until their hands bleed and screaming to people that don’t listen.  Harry curls against himself even farther, just differentiating shapes in the darkness.  He’s only seen glimpses of the sun in the past couple days and it’s already becoming hard to remember what it feels like.

                An old man sneezes on him, but he can’t bring himself to care.  He’s been listening to him hiss and wheeze for the past ninety six hours, this is nothing.  When he falls on the ground Harry snaps his attention as best he can towards the noise.  “Sir?”

                It seems no one else notices the man except him.  “Sir, can you hear me?”  Harry fumbles blindly in the darkness until he strokes his fragile limbs.  “I’m going to lift you okay?  You can lean on me.” 

                Gently Harry guides the man’s heads toward his shoulder.  The old man is shaking, tears dripping onto Harry’s shirt, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest.  “Don’t be scared sir.  You can grip onto me; I don’t want you to fall.”

                The old man swallows thickly.  He takes a ragged breath, “Thank you”.  Harry can still feel him shivering against him, trying to maintain what little warmth he can.  The boy takes matters into his own hands as he gingerly wraps his arms around his upper torso, rubbing his hands up and down.  “We’ll stick together,” Harry says.  “We’ll fight the cold, okay?”

                He doesn’t reply.  Harry doesn’t mind.

~  ~  ~

                When the train finally stops rattling, he thinks he’s dreaming.  For the first time in a while he lets the tiniest sliver of a smile warm his face.  “Sir, you don’t have to worry anymore.  We’re here.”  Maybe that’s a lie, but at that point he couldn’t think of anything worse than what he had already been through.  “You have to get up sir, we’re here.”

                The old man still doesn’t stir.  Harry softly lifts him, only to have his body crash lifelessly.  “Sir?” he asks, his voice unusually small.  “Sir, you’ve got to get up now.”  Except when Harry grips his hands they are colder than they should be, and he can’t hear his breathing anymore.  “Oh sir,” gripping his hands, he kneels before him.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

                At first the light stings his eyes, and he’s forced to cower from the one thing he’s so desperately craved.   But here they don’t pause for them to get their bearings together, instead shuffling them out as fast as they can with a series of harsh insults.  Harry doesn’t relinquish his grip on the old man even when they tell him too.  “I can’t just leave him here,” he mutters to himself.  “He, he shouldn’t have to be so cold.”

                ‘Blue eyes’ grabs him again, vicious as ever.  Harry wants to know why this man has chosen to single him out, why, out of all the other people here, he had to choose him.  “He’s, he’s just an old man,” he almost begs, only to have his arm nearly ripped from its socket as he’s shuffled away.  “I’m sorry!”  It echoes inside of the cabin.  “I’m sorry!”

                Once again he’s on his knees.  His fingers _squish_ when he’s thrown on the ground, dirt fusing with his cracked skin.  He looks up and he’s terrified as he begins to miss the cabin.  Because now he knows how worse it can get.

                The first thing he notices is the smell.  It’s vinegary and rancid and it makes his stomach lurch.  Just the stench seems to hang on him, like the snow used to; except this is even more uncomfortable then the frost bitten fingers or blue coloured limbs. 

                “Get off the ground,” the soldier barks.  He doesn’t even have the decency to help Harry stand, instead letting him sway and almost collapse again.  “You get down again, don’t expect to get back up.” Harry looks into his eyes and he won’t let himself get fooled this time.  This man isn’t a saint, no, he’s a _monster_ in disguise.

                He’s escorted through the gates, the last one among hundreds of people.  As soon as his feet cross the border they begin to close shut.  When he hears the eerie _click,_ hell begins to break loose.

                Families are being torn apart from side to side, screams shaking the air as they cry and beg.  Harry is being shoved backwards by men with guns and it causes him to panic.  He pushes against the blockade only to be hit over the head with the butt of a rifle, sent spiraling towards the ground without another thought.  People are running over him as they try to scurry away but it’s no use.  They are being separated like cattle, men from women, mother from child, husband from wife.

                Harry holds his head like those many days before, except he’s avoiding a stampede instead of the wind.   “Stop!” he’s screaming, “You’re going to crush me!  Stop!”

                _“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” a younger Harry cries.  They are throwing rocks at him and calling him that_ word, _and it hurts so much._   _“You’re hurting me!”  Even then they don’t quit.  They aim for his face and only continue when they miss.  When they get tired of that they go for direct abuse, replacing rocks for punches then punches for kicks until one boy even pulls a knife and finally they are broken apart.  Harry’s shaking when someone starts to grab him.  “Don’t, no please!  Please, I take it back!  Don’t hurt me!”_

_“It’s me,” his father hushes, pulling him in his lap. “Harry, it’s me.  I’ll protect you, sh.”_

“ _They’re hurting me,” he whimpers, cradling his bloodied, abused body.  His father only hushes him again, cradling him to his chest._

_“I’ll protect you.  Always.  I promise.”_

Harry thinks maybe he was hit a little too hard when he begins to cry, “Papa,” over and over again.  Everything hurts and they keep stepping on him and he just wants it to stop.  They are hurting him, and he’d been stupid enough to cling to the brief hope that things were going to be better now.

                _Be strong Harry,_ he thinks, _you can’t be a loser._ So despite his bludgeoned face and aching limbs, despite the electric fear that sparks like coils in his gut, he lets himself open his eyes.  Then the wretched image begins to configure itself, and it’s then he discovers that being brave is not letting yourself get hurt, it’s learning when to turn away.

                At first he can’t make out what’s happening.  All he sees is the frigid character of a woman as she pleads with a man.  Her face is fierce, conformed into a look of the most extreme form of hatred.  The man is expressionless, calm…and for some reason that makes it worse.

                Then Harry finally begins to see.  _They are tugging a baby._ They are gripping it like a piece of rope and yanking it back and forth and even _he_ can see they are hurting it.  If they don’t stop they are going to kill it-

                And he can imagine the noise enough to feel like he’s actually hearing it.  The mother who tried to save her baby has now _hurt it,_ nearly ripped off its arms from the looks of it.  Harry feels himself getting sick but now he can’t stop watching.  Like the hasty passing of a star shooting across the sky, he clings to the impossible chance that maybe this will go well.

                It doesn’t.

                Because the mother almost seems to give up; she becomes a _loser._ One second she’s gripping her child for dear life and then its delicate fingers slip from her grasp.   Frantically she reaches to grab it again, only to be shoved to the ground.

                The man who seemed emotionless smirks nastily and turns to the woman.   He can’t understand what he says, but he knows what he’s going to do.  Harry knows he should turn away but… they can’t be this bad.    Nobody can be this bad.

                But they are.

                In an exaggerated movement he hurls the baby up in an air.  He doesn’t treat it like a human being, or a person, or even a _child._ If you didn’t focus on the object, you would have thought the fragile creature was nothing more than a ball.  But it’s not.  _It’s an infant child._

The mother is screaming and Harry is reaching out to save it somehow.  “STOP!” he cries, the words lost in the chaos.  “LEAVE IT ALONE! STOP!”  But they never listened to him before, and they don’t start listening to him now.

                They don’t even let its suffering end easy.  They have to take it a step further.  Instead of letting it all be done they decided to _shoot it._ Like a target.  They unleash machine guns on its once untainted skin and the sight of the blood makes Harry finally hurl.  He’s sobbing because that wasn’t fair.  That wasn’t right.  These people can’t be human.

                For a brief second he looks at the mother.   She’s broken, her face fragmented by grief, and she tries to rip the guns from their hands.  Harry wants to tell her to stop, because they are going to hurt her too, but then he knows that’s what she wants.  And maybe Harry might want that now too.

                So she gets what she intended.   The machine guns bullets plow through her body in torrents and she falls.  Just like her child.

                Harry’s forced up again, _again,_ and he was content to just lay there forever.  And of course it has to be _him_ and finally he’s had enough.  “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” even his screaming can just barely be heard.  “WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU?”

                And then he sees it.  It’s so brief; a blink and then it’s gone.  The blue eyed Nazi feels _pity._ He feels _pain._ He feels _sorry._ And Harry is the only one who will ever see it, but that makes him happy.  Because at least he knows it’s there.  At least he knows that there is a man in there somewhere.

                It passes quickly, and Harry quivers against his gaze.  The cold is back.  The cold that hurts more than how the temperature ices his blood stream, yet Harry can’t move.  He knows what’s about happen, but he’s left frozen.

                ‘Blue eyes’ grabs him by the back of the neck and yanks him the opposite direction.  Harry sees the gates fading behind him, and he memorizes the details because it’s a very real possibility that he’ll never see them again.  He’s thrown to the ground, only to be told to “stand up”.

                Harry looks around and sees that he’s standing in a line.  Like a collection.  He’s next to an old man and a very little boy who can’t be more than two.  As he surveys further down the line that’s all he sees, old men and younger children. 

                In a straight file soldiers march in front of them.  They are situated parallel to each other, one gun for every person.  It’s in that moment that Harry realizes they intend to shoot the weak, the ones who won’t survive.  And he’s one of them.

                He sees the little boy shaking, and he can’t take it.  He crouches down despite their orders, takes his hands, and whispers gently, “close your eyes”.  Because he’s an adult, the little boy does what he says.

 “I know it hurts now, but it won’t in a little while.  You’re going to be just fine in a couple of minutes.  If you close your eyes, I bet you can see it.”  He does so.  “There ya go.  I bet you’re thinking of home, huh?  Are you playing in the snow?”  The little boy nods.   “I’d be playing in the snow too, and it’d be nice and fresh and white.  You probably have brothers and sisters running around near you.  You just keep your eyes closed and think of that, okay?  Don’t open them.”   Before Harry can say anything more the men are speaking in a different tongue, and then they are pulling Harry away and wrenching his hands from the little boys, and Harry can only scream “don’t open your eyes!  Don’t you dare open those eyes!”

                Before he has time to turn they are shooting at them.  He sees the little boy, eyes still crushed tight, fall to the ground.  Like the baby.  Like the mother.  Like the old man.  All because their God was a little bit different.  Like he was little bit different.

                _“Hey Papa,” a littler Harry asks, emerald eyes alight with youth.  “Is,” he pauses, shifts back and forth.  “Do you think boys can be pretty?”_

_Harry’s father turns at a lightning speed.  His eyes are wide, but they quickly shrink at the sight of the defeated look on Harry’s face.  He crouches before him, hugging him tightly._

_“Do you think boys are pretty Harry?”  He shouldn’t be okay with it, but he has to be.  There can’t be anything wrong with a boy as innocent as this.  When he feels his son nod, he can only smile._

_“Well, I think that’s alright.  And if you think that’s alright, that’s all that matters.”_

_“Okay.”_

                The weight of the world feels like an anchor, stuck in a harbor of sin and far from the waves of retribution.    Though he’s not bound his hands fall in front of him as if conjoined by shackles.  His head is low, his back is hunched, and his feet just barely scuttle against the dirt.  This may not be a prison, but he’s a prisoner.

                He finds himself in another line except this one is vertical.  Harry can’t stop his curious eyes from exploring every inch of the concentration camp.  It’s black.  That’s really all he notices about it.  The ground is black, the sky is black, the men’s hearts are black.  Not even a relaxing shade, like the empty colour of night.  Ebony.  Everything around him is the colour of sinful ebony.

                It has fences and dirt and he sort of thinks of it like a cage.   It’s the big huge cage and they are the animals, prepped to be slaughtered.  He sees the people around him, examines each and every single of them, and he can’t find one damn similarity except for their religion.  It’s again he finds it weird that one thing almost insignificant unites them in a way that will lead them to die.

                Harry’s always been a thinker.   He hides inside the brilliant recesses of his mind because his mouth falls useless compared to his thoughts.  The nineteen year old boy can’t articulate anything intelligent because it’s all trapped inside, yet that mind is perfectly sculpted for any other occasion it seems.  It can craft and solve equations, create poetry from spindles of eclectic words, and can read people as fast as he can read books.  People called him stupid, but Harry just wasn’t cocky.

                However, at times like these, when his mind is whirling and he is caught observing that he wishes he could turn his brain off.  He wishes he wouldn’t have the photographic memory that captures every scene and puts them in a permanent album, or that he won’t recognize the artificial confidence that didn’t reach people’s eyes.  Harry wishes he had the power to forget.

                Because then he wouldn’t see the people collapsing all around him, spiraling towards the ground in a sloppy yet graceful dance as their limbs twirled in time.  He’d be able to close his eyes and not formulate everything in excruciating detail as if he was watching it as it happened.  He wouldn’t have this horrible _ache_ in his chest that feels like slush sifting through his upper torso. 

                He’s steered towards a huge building, enclosed only on two ends with an arch way on either side.  Rotted and dusty, it’s a structure that stands weary against one hard blow of the breeze.  Wind sifts something on the floor, and only upon closer inspection does he realize that it’s an assortment of untidy cuts of hair.

                Some tickle the ends of his feet as they dance across the trail.  His hands fly to his curls at the feel of it.  A pang of something indescribable-he’s called it _loss_ when he’s felt it before- barrels into his chest.   It’s trivial, to be so upset over hair but, _what else was he going to have?  What else was he going to have that made him Harry?_ Because the inside sure didn’t feel like Harry anymore.  Not since his father died, and his mother kicked him out.

                They clip it with ease.  In a flurry of brunette torrents his hair seems to glide like feathers to the floor.  Each _snip_ ends his innocence, ends his happiness, and he thinks they didn’t shave it off because they wanted him to feel _this._ Make him feel like he is nothing but a defenseless sheep and his hair is being harvested like wool.

                Despite the removal, his body feels heavier.  He feels heavier. It’s so insignificant, the loss of a few curls, but it doesn’t feel like it.  Harry didn’t like anything about himself except his hair, and it was the same for everyone else too.  He now has nothing left.

                _The kiss of December that year wasn’t particularly grueling for Harry.  Beneath the shaggy layers of his abundant hair, he could almost keep himself warm.  Plus his mother still loved him then, still cooed and hummed and sang to him, so she’d made him a long brown scarf that wasn’t very neat but he loved it anyway.  Because his mother had made it for him and that made it perfect._

_He was playing in town, chattering to people as his shoes clacked against the stone (those were hammy downs from his father, the tops worn to no repair, but he loved them regardless) when he saw him.  The boy wasn’t particularly pretty but he was the first boy that gave Harry a warm fuzzy feeling in his tummy.  He was only nine then, so he didn’t know what it was._

_So he approached the boy, and they played together.  Nothing was complicated then. Two boys could pass a ball back and forth between their toes- Harry, admittedly, very badly- and it’d be okay.  The War was only just beginning then.  It didn’t matter if you were a Jew or a Gypsy or anything.  Everyone was mostly the same._

_Harry decided to walk to the boy home because really, playing with him had been fun, and he liked how rosy the boy’s cheeks got and that’s what he thought friends did.  He and the boy probably wouldn’t be friends long, but that was tomorrow, and Harry lived for today._

_When they reached his door, Harry took the boys hand, and smiled charmingly.  The boy was a little uneasy, completely unsure, and more than a little uncomfortable.  But the boy was his friend, so he grinned a sheepish grin, and thought of the first compliment he could.  “You’ve got really nice curls?”_

_And boy did that make Harry feel good.  “Yeah?’_

_“They’re…really nice.”  Then the boy scrambled back inside and left Harry without even the mention of a name.  But that was okay.  Because for a little while, Harry really liked himself, and he really liked the curls that no one else had._

                Next was the God-awful tattoo they engraved in his skin.  He tries to be strong but it is like someone is searing it into his arm and it burns even hours after it is adhered to his skin.  He had only let the idea of being an animal lull in his head, but now he really is one.  _He’s been branded_.

                He can’t help that his fingers absent mindedly trace over his left forearm after that.  The tips are just too large to properly flitter across the ink of _A24602._ The skin is already irritated but he can’t help but scratch at it furiously, trying to somehow peel off the numbers because if he can maybe it makes this not real.  Yet it remains, it still burns, and it still infuriates him to the point he’s shaking.

                They sleep in a bungalow that could in absolutely no way be considered cozy.  It’s humid from sweat, dirt, and grime.  The beds are organized as bunks, barely enough room for one to life their head, and are eerily marked by the prisoners before them.  Harry’s breath catches in his throat when he runs his hand across the wood and feels marks chipped into the wood.  He counts and finds only seventeen, and he doesn’t know if that terrifies him or makes him hopeful.

                The bed is just as uncomfortable as it looks, and Harry is so tall his feet hang off the bed.  It’s just a block of wood, but he figures because he’s crammed between two other people, he’ll at least be warm.  Maybe he’ll even be lucky and get the middle, though he doesn’t think it very likely.

                None of them are given a moment to rest before they are shoved to another destination.  They are untidily sorted into two separate groups.  He sees he’s among other men with at least a little muscle on their bones, and he thinks maybe he should be a little flattered until he wonders what he must be doing.

                Harry gets nervous when the stench gets stronger.  He hasn’t got used to it yet, he’s been taking it in slow wafts, so he tries to breathe through his mouth instead.  It seems that doesn’t even matter, because the smell is so overpowering he doesn’t even have to breathe in. 

                They throw a shovel at him and tell him to “start digging”.  He has to climb a small hill to get to the area they’ve told him too.  And before that hike he thought the higher you got the closer you got to Heaven, but that’s not true.  On top of the mountain is hundreds, _thousands_ he corrects himself, of bodies piled together like a stack of cards about to topple.  Their skin is black, their faces worn, and some are even missing limbs.

                He has to fight himself not to throw up, but in doing so he cries.  He weeps for those people all around him who’ve lost their lives, and the ones that will.  He’s sobbing for the cruelness of the world that’s manifesting itself in horrible evil that will leave thousands of people scarred for a reason he can’t see as just. 

                A person next to him, senior to him by at least ten years, explains about the white powder.  They don’t exactly know its name, only that it stops the bodies from rotting which helps with the smell.  Harry doesn’t think it does a very good job, but he doesn’t say that.  Before he takes a handful the man warns him that it will hurt, sting more than anything he’s ever felt, and that it will take a long while to get used to it.

                “But it’s better if you only get it on your hands,” he advises.  “That way only one part of you hurts.”  Harry doesn’t consider telling him that a lot of other parts are hurting too, but he thinks it.

                It turns out the white powder is actually excruciating painful, especially when it ends up in the sores on Harry’s skin.  The pain is so blinding Harry actually cries out.  No one hears him except the overseer, and he gives Harry a lashing and tells him to continue.

                The work is grueling.  Harry develops a rhythm in his head to keeps his mind off the actual activity.  It becomes a sort of chant, and it succeeds in keeping him calm.  _Dig.  Lay.  Cover.  Dig the whole.  Lay the bodies.  Cover their faces in the painful, white snow._

                From the beginning it’s not about covering the smell, it’s hiding their faces.  They’ve met enough travesties, Harry figures that it isn’t fair for them to have to look on it in death too.  He covers their bodies too, sure, but not before their faces.

                He sprinkles dirt on one smaller body in particular before he nearly drops his shovel in the hole.  His hands start to shake, and he just barely stops himself from placing his palms to his mouth.  The gestures he makes are helpless; he grabs the air, shifts his arms back and forth, tries to grab at his hair before he realizes it’s not there. 

                “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” he whimpers in an irregular rhythm.  “You aren’t supposed to be here.  No, no, no, no.”  She’s missing her blonde curls, the chastised innocence, and naïve blue eyes, but it’s her.  It’s the only person in the world who’s ever cared about him.

                The officer gives him a warning with furrowed eyebrows and a tight frown.  Harry dips his hands in the white, crushed limestone, the pain overbearing, but this girl deserves a proper burial.  Maybe the others did too, but he only knows of her.

                Harry groans, gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw at holding the white powder coating.  When he lets it fall only some of the pain dissipates, but he compensates.  The filaments coat her face like a pretty faux snow, like the faux halo she wore.  “You go to sleep now,” Harry mumbles, careful not to get caught.  “You go with the angels.”

                His sentiment ends up as five whip marks across his back anyway.  Even as the cuts begin to burn, and the blood seeps down his back, he can’t bring himself to care.

~  ~  ~

                Time’s a wasted concept in his new reality.  Sometimes you work through the night, sometimes through the day.  The only thing that remains constant is the pain.  It’s not an _ache,_ or a _sting,_ or anything really.  It’s hollowness, for the world that forgot them and that will not remember them again.

                He’s escorted the first night back, muscles aching in protest.  He thinks if images could bring you hurt his eyes would be bleeding for sure.  And some will forget, but he won’t.  Harry considers that the worst pain of all.

                The other people in his compartment separate without talking.  It’s crammed and humid, but it’s better than having to shovel bodies.  Harry’s the last one in, so he gets the last bunk.  It’s empty.

                It ends up being just as uncomfortable as he anticipated.  But he considers himself blessed for not having to share.

                That changes quickly, however.  Not five minutes after everyone has fallen asleep he hears the faint sound of two whispers underneath him.  He finds this peculiar because he’s got the bottom bunk.  For a few minutes he just sits and listens.

                “It’s okay.  He’s going to come rescue us.  Don’t cry.”  The unnamed figure shushes the other one, and he can tell the boy must be little.  At least eight or nine.

                The next voice that speaks is even younger, unable to form some words with his premature tongue.  “I want him to come now.  They hurt me.  They hurt my back.”  He starts sobbing hysterically, the kind where his breath hitches, and incoherent babbling leaves his mouth.  Harry, being the ever benevolent soul he was raised to be, peaks over the edge of the bed.

                Two boys, he determines that immediately.  His groggy brain couldn’t quite conjoin the pieces of the puzzle, but now he realizes it was stupid to think otherwise.  They separated genders earlier.  One’s got faint, almost white blonde hair.  His eyes are blue, but different.   Dark, they’re like a pond untouched by the sun, slightly tainted with a murky green, but not so much that it will overlap the richness of the water.

                The other is as pale, but the similarities end there.  His hair is shaggier, eyes a deep shade of russet that are bright with passion.  He’s got chubby cheeks, ones that will fade, and a solemn scowl on his face.  This one is holding the younger boy, stroking his hair.  Just from their stance he can see they are shivering like crazy.

                Harry is the one to break the silence.  “Hello,” his voice is soft, comforting.  He doesn’t want to frighten them away.  “Why are you two down there?”

                They freeze in petrification.  Harry is quick  
to reassure them.  “Oh no, you aren’t in trouble.  I just,” he shakes his head where his curls would have dangled, “you could stay down there if you want.  I have a whole bed to myself though.  I don’t mind sharing.”

                It’s the brown eyed boy who speaks first.  “We don’t even know your name.”  He hugs the blonde boy tighter, obviously frightened but trying to pretend not to be.

                “I’m Harry.  Do I get to know your names?”

                While the brown haired boy expresses uneasiness, the blonde one finally speaks.  “His name is Michael.”  His voice betrays him as it cracks, and he releases a sickly cough.  Michael shushes him gently.

                “His name is Daniel.”  He regards Harry quietly. 

                “I’m not going to force you or anything.  I just thought I’d ask.  I could keep you warm too; I’ve got long arms.”  He leans farther off the bed and waves his arms all around to demonstrate.  Daniel laughs and Michael wants too.

                Daniel tugs on Michael’s shirt.  “Please, can we?  He’s nice, and I’m so cold.”  It seems Michael lacks the willpower to say no to his little brother, so he quietly urges him forward.  They crawl out from under the bed together, already insanely tiny, and they haven’t even been starved yet.

                Harry scoots over to let them both in.  Michael goes first, and then Daniel.  Harry stays on the outer most edge, he figures the little boys are scared, and climbs in.  Both are shivering violently, and without a second though, Harry scoops them both sideways into his arms.  Michael’s the first to speak once again.

                “Oh please be careful, they whipped ‘im and it hurts ‘is back.”  His accent leaks through when he’s worried, much thicker.  Harry nods, regarding Daniel gently.

                He cuddles into his back, face first into Harry’s chest.  If he’s being truthful, it melts his heart, and he can almost feel a smile begin on his features.  Michael is much more weary, but once Harry begins to pet his hair, tentatively at first, Michael follows suit.  He snuggles into Harry from behind Daniel, careful to avoid his back.

                “You trusted me pretty fast,” he muses, not comfortable enough to smile, but very warm.  Michael releases a sleep yawn.

                “Do I have any reason not to?”

                Harry ponders the question. “No, no I don’t think so.”

                “Then I figure you’re alright.  Nobody else asked about us.”

                He nods, stalling his hair combing for a minute at the quick realization.  “How did you two avoid getting your hair cut?”

                Michael frowns grimly.  “That’s what he got lashed for.  We’ve been hiding.  Daniel’s ‘fraid a needles.”  In response Daniel cuddles closer to Harry’s chest, now gripping onto his shirt with his tiny hands.  Harry shushes him quietly.

                “You might have to face it soon,” he mumbles quietly.  “But once it’s over you can come back and I’ll be here eventually, okay?  If you can be a big boy then I’ll come back soon, and then you can stop being old for a while and I’ll let you be a kid.”  Harry’s talking to Daniel but he looks at Michael too to convey the message.  Michael instead buries his head to the portion of Harry’s arm he’s in contact with.

                Harry doesn’t know how the little boys can trust a stranger so easily; he wouldn’t.   He thinks maybe that’s what so remarkable about it.  All Harry had to do was offer them kindness, and they’ll treat him like they’ve known him forever.

                He’s seen a lot of death.  Lots of death he was hopeless to prevent.  But as he lies with the two boys cradled in his arms that feel like happiness and peace, he knows they aren’t going to die on him.  They won’t.

                They sit in silence for hours it seems, and neither of the boys can sleep.  It’s the toll of being in a new place without anyone they recognize, and even if they’ve befriended Harry, he knows it’s not enough.  So Harry does his best to remind them of home.

                “My Mama,” he has to force the word, but he gets it out, “used to sing to me when I was scared.  Would that help you?”

                “Yes please,” Daniel mumbles, shivering violently.  Harry takes the hand that was lying across their bodies and uses it to pull them against him.  Michael is still timid, but he’s still a little kid, and soon snuggles into the warmth Harry’s nimble body provides.   Harry lets out a horrible cough, one that has him hacking up blood, before he reacts.

                Harry cleans his throat.  His voice won’t sound great because he’s so hoarse, but if it will at least let _them_ rest, he figures that’s alright.  “ _This little light of mine,”_ he has to cough again before continuing, “ _I’m gonna let it shine.  This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.  This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”_ Exhaustion has taken its toll on the boys, and he knows by the next verse they’ll be asleep.  So Harry sings, and somewhere along the way, he finds a kindred little flicker of faith in his chest, and he decides that maybe, it’d be alright, if he let it shine.

~  ~  ~

                The next time Harry returns to the bunker, it feels as if his hands are sizzling from the dust.  He was careful not to get it anywhere else, but his attempts were apparently unsuccessful.  Even wiping them across his pants only smears them in dirt, coating his hands in a thick, ashy residue.  His exhaustions wanes and he has a hard time keeping his eyes open.  Then he hears the whimpers coming from his bunk. 

                Immediately he knows who it is.  A throb of sorrow contracts his heart, the cries sharper than knives in chest.  “Daniel?  Daniel, it’s Harry.”

                The little boy darts out from inside the bunk and grabs at the much older boy.  He hugs his legs, tears soaking his revealed skin.  Harry doesn’t approve of the separation between them, especially not in the boy’s state.  He pulls away, trying to avoid the hurt look he sees.  Instead he grabs the boy under his arms and guides him into his chest.  Maybe he’s too old, but he needs comfort, and that’s something Harry can provide.

                Soon his tiny digits are forcefully clinging to Harry’s shirt.  He mumbles incoherent sentences into Harry’s neck, and it’s only when Harry reaches up to pet his hair that he realizes what is wrong.  Suddenly his words make sense.  “Needles…cut…my hair…hurt me,” and Harry can’t help but grip him a little tighter.

                “Sh,” he whispers, unfazed by the looks he’s getting, “don’t cry.  It’s over now.  It’s over.”  He looks around.  “Where is your brother?”  When he doesn’t answer, Harry becomes terrified.  He doesn’t know where this sudden attachment spurred from, but it’s hit him blindly in the chest like a forceful tidal wave.  “Daniel, where’s Michael?”

                “They hurt ‘im.”  He lets go of Harry to point to the bunk, where Harry can now detect a huddled figure.  When Harry tries to set him down, Daniel starts to panic, so Harry lets him rest against him.  “Please be careful Harry.”

                Harry’s voice is everything but harsh, “Michael.  Michael, can I come near you?” 

                “Yes,” and it’s easy to detect that he has been crying.  For a while, it seems.

                So Harry sits down next to him, Daniel still curled against him like a baby.  Harry doesn’t care, and he doesn’t think he ever will.  Immediately he notices the absence of his hair.  Slowly, like a hunter approaching a deer, he makes his way toward his new companion.  Daniel seems to notice that his brother is in need of Harry, so finally, he crawls to the end of the bed.  Harry still holds his hand.

                “Do, do you,” he’s bumbling and awkward, but he can’t scare him.  Harry knows from the slight tremble in his back that he’s terrified enough, “Do you want to come here?”

                Michael turns over.  It’s the first time Harry thinks he might snap.  He’s kept a calm façade of his emotions, determined to come out victorious, but the sight of Michael makes him so furious he’s surprised he hasn’t combusted.  It’s not even a fire within him now; it’s an explosion of pure fury.

                His lip is nearly split in half, probably could use some stitches from the looks of it.  The left side of his face is a conglomeration of bruises, cuts, and scrapes.  Harry can already tell that his arms are going to be much worse, probably bloody from the needle that has sewn a number into his skin.  Michael blinks steadily at Harry, trying not to look afraid.

                “Who did this to you?”  It’s wrong of him to sound so angry, and he recognizes his mistake immediately.  “No, no, I’m not mad at you.  Don’t flinch.  Come ‘ere.  I’ve got you.”  Michael hesitates, before crawling to sit in Harry’s lap.  He’s much too old, but again, that doesn’t matter anymore.

                Sensing his hesitation, Harry takes matters into his own hands, and sets Michael in a comfortable position on his lap, with his head resting against his chest.  Michael doesn’t cry, doesn’t speak, barely even breathes it seems, but Harry can tell that he’s hurt far worse than he’ll ever admit.

                “I’m so sorry.”  Harry speaks the words into his bald skin, noticing how Daniel has once again latched himself to him.  It seems that he’s the ground, and Daniel is trying desperately not to float away.

                “I thought he was going to kill me,” Michael admits.  “He wanted to kill me, I think.”

                “But he didn’t,” Harry says forcefully, “and you are hurt, but you are going to keep pushing with me.”  His next words are gentler, “okay?  We aren’t going to be losers, right?  We are going to survive, and I’m going to take you boys away from here.  And we’ll live wherever you want, in any country, on any continent.  That’s a _promise._ ”

                Michael buries his face in Harry’s chest, trying to hide, Harry thinks.  “You can’t promise that.”

                “I can, and I am.  You are going to get out of here.”  His voice is so determined, and the boys are so naïve, they believe him instantly.  Harry might have only been in their lives a day, but he’s here.  He’s someone who’s living, and nice, and who actually _cares._ Michael doesn’t think even his real father cared as much as Harry does.

                Daniel somehow has wormed his way into Harry’s lap, and Harry thinks this is how he likes it.  The two of them curled in his arms, him whispering hushed reassurances, this feeling of _warmth_ that isn’t scalding, but cozy.  That’s how a flame should be, vibrant, but not harsh, and that’s how it feels protecting them.

                “Can you sing us that song, from last night?” Daniel asks.  He’s taken to caring for Michael, rubbing his hand up and down his back.  “He likes it.  It helps him fall asleep.”

                Harry runs his hand up and down both their arms.  He’s trying to warm them.  “Of course, I’ll sing it to you every night if you want.  It’s a nice song.”  Harry clears his throat.  “ _Hide it under a bushel, no, I’m gonna let it shine…”_

~  ~  ~

                The coughing gets steadily worse.  It’s got Harry terrified, but he’s not allowed to feel that way.  This is about Daniel and Michael now, and he doesn’t care what God has in store for him, he’s _not_ leaving them until he knows they are safe.

                They are being escorted to their respective positions.  The three boys are about to be separated before Harry sees Michael frozen in fear.   Harry tries to remain inconspicuous.

                “What’s wrong?”

                “That’s him, from a couple of nights ago,” his gaze is on his barefoot feet, hands nervously twining in front of him.  “You don’t think he’ll hurt me, do you?  He won’t kill me-”

                “No,” Harry interrupts hastily.  “You two go on, and do _exactly_ what they say.  Then I’ll be right there when you get back, okay?”  He pauses.  “And don’t let them give you a shower.”

                “Why-”

                Harry gives him his best attempt at a half-smile, “I’ll explain later.  Be good, _please._ ”

                They leave, and Harry stealthily sneaks away from everyone else.  Every move he makes is like teetering on ice, and he’s scared for the day he inevitably slips through.  That day isn’t going to be today though.  He’s sure of that.

                It’s when he’s up closer that Harry recognizes the figure.  And that is even worse.  Because it couldn’t be any other soldier, it had to be the one who’s singled him out.  Harry’s subconscious screams, begs, pleads, for him to turn back, but passion has got the best of him.

                When no one’s looking he’s forcefully shoving the blue eyed man into a dark, foreboding alley.  ‘Blue eyes’ does _not_ like that, not at all.  In an instant, he’s pressing a gun against Harry’s chest, breathing heavily.

                “Tell me why I shouldn’t _fucking_ shoot you right now.”

                Harry doesn’t let that faze him, even though he’s scared out of his mind.  “What the ‘ell kind of a monster beats up a kid?”  He’s voice is dangerously low, and his voice wasn’t high to begin with.  “You are a monster, a sick _bastard._ And you should know it.  You should feel ashamed because you are worthless.”

                _This is it,_ Harry thinks, _I’m going to die._

He doesn’t let himself waver though.  The green irises that would weep for water and beg for companionship are now aflame with a blistering heat against the crippling cold.  This kind of heat never escaped him, he thinks, the kind that hurts.

                For a second, the two are paralyzed, caught in a trance of a perilous stand still.  One’s got his hand gripped against a trigger, hiding behind his weapon, while the other’s is pushed back, a sign of fight.  But what are most reflective are their eyes, because for longer than the passing moment of before, Harry sees it.  He sees that tiny glimmer of compassion that that soldier’s had to quash, and Harry desperately tries to pull it out of him.  Because this man may be bathed in black, but Harry thinks he can dry into light.

                He thinks the Nazi sees it too.  Or maybe he sees something different.  Maybe he sees the fight, the broil, the fierceness, and the determination of perseverance.  Maybe it affects him.  Harry doesn’t know, and he doesn’t question, or move, when he pulls the gun down.  For a second they stand there, lost in this awkward confrontation.

                “Go,” his voice lacks the luster it had before, “before I change my mind”.

                Harry doesn’t think twice about it then.

                But minutes later, when the smell of rotten flesh is overpowering his senses, when he’s dizzy from the pain of the weight, the look passed between them is engraved within his mind.  And this might be the one memory he doesn’t want to forget.

~  ~  ~

                “You’re alive,” Michael breathes.  Harry’s starting to deteriorate, and he recognizes it himself.  He’s lost track of the days because one feels like a month, and an hour feels like a day, and he figures everyone else has lost the hope he’s desperately trying to keep.  It’s this tiredness that almost makes him collapse when the seventy-two pound boy barrels into him.

                _Stay strong.  Don’t let them see you weak._

Harry plasters on a smile, his first smile, and it’s fake but dammit, it’s a smile.  “Of course, we have ‘ta get out of here, remember?”  Harry finds that questions evoke responses which give way to excitement, and that’s essentially happiness.  Happiness is what he’s aiming to give them.

                “You scared me,” Michael says.  “We’re like…you’re like…”  Harry thinks he knows what Michael is trying to say, and it’s wrong to find it so adorable in the setting they are in.

                “You can think of me as whatever you want.  I don’t mind anything.”

                Michael nods, grabs Harry’s hand, and pulls him into the bunk.  “You look like you’re about to pass out,” he explains, solemn once more.  “Can’t have my…my…can’t have you collapsing on me.”

                Harry sits down on the firm wood.  He doesn’t have much time to spare before someone’s already bounding into the door, shoving it open.  All conversation, not that there was much, ceases in fear.  Harry’s throat tightens.  He doesn’t know if he can make a night of working too…

                But of course the first number they call is, “A24602”.  Harry’s scared because Michael and Daniel are nervous, pressing themselves into his back like he’s some sort of beacon, and they are calling all the elderly, and he swears something is going to happen.

                “Stand,” they demand.  Harry does so, slightly unsteady from nerves.  He hates how he has no control over what happens, he can fight and fight, resist and defend, but in the end he’s powerless to his fate.  “Squat.”

                Harry’s muscles are stretched taut, the flesh already bruised and sore, only to get worse.  The position makes him physically whimper, and he looks over to Michael and Daniel, only to see they’ve hidden under the bed.  He’s glad.  He doesn’t want them to see him like this.

                For forty-five minutes they keep them there, squatting, their thighs burning and sweat trickling against their dirt cloaked skin.  The ones who don’t make it are whisked away, to be killed Harry’s sure, and he can’t be one of them.  But even Harry isn’t superhuman.

                His fall is slow, a forward lurch that becomes an awkward bend in his knees.  He’s like a pendulum that’s lost his swing, a tree falling to the ground, the lazy, drastic death of a flame.  When he reaches the floor though, he’s not concerned for himself.  He can only see the two boys holding hands, and looking at Harry with faces of absolute terror.

                “Don’t be scared _,”_ he mumbles, and he can even manage a smile.  They aren’t convinced, but he can’t just leave them like this.

                So he hums the song under his breath.  He thinks it’s his anthem now.  “ _This little light of mine,”_ his voice is strangled, quiet, so just they can hear.  Somehow it echoes around the room anyway, and soon they pin his hands behind his back, and shove him out of the bunker.

                “Our Father, who art in Heaven,” he can’t even help his quiver now, “h-hallowed be thy-y name, by kingdom c-come-”

                “I’ve got him,” the voice doesn’t steady him, the one that stretches like sweet, sugary dough, but is high like a soothing lullaby he’s heard before.  “He’s been giving me trouble since he got here.”

                Harry can’t look.  He wants to remember the look when those blue eyes lapped like the ocean against his being with compassionate mercy.  After the insolate gleam of a bright, burning hope, Harry can’t let that chill creep into his bones again.  Not when it’ll be the last thing he sees.

                His touch leaves Harry numb, almost having to drag him to the alley in which they associated before.  Harry can tell when he has to brace himself against the wall to be steadied.  When the blue-eyed’ soldier stops, Harry keeps his eyes closed.

                They stand for a second, Harry waiting for the _click_ of a gun, the Nazi waiting for the boy to open his eyes.  The next words to leave the Nazi’s lips are awkward.  “I, I, I’m not” he has to pause and start again, “I’m not going to hurt you”.

                That little light of his flickers in the confines of his chest.  Harry takes a quick peak to see the Nazi soldier, _the enemy,_ with his hands folded in front of him, like a normal lad almost.  But he can’t be normal…can he?

                Harry still can’t tame the fear that roars in his chest.  “I don’t understand…”

                The Nazi runs his hand over his face, trying to give Harry a menacing look but failing miserably.  “Don’t expect this to be a regular occurrence,” his voice is mean, but it doesn’t match his words.  He reaches in his pocket (he tries not to think of Harry’s flinch), and withdraws an object enclosed in a handkerchief.    The boy almost shoves it at Harry.

                Nestled in the folds is three pieces of warm bread.  Harry almost can’t believe it’s real.  It emits heat, warms his blue, worn fingers.  “You, I,”

                “Why are you here,” he demands, like a command and not a question.

                Harry can’t look up at him.  For a second he figures he should lie, but really, what difference does it make?  They are all supposed scum here, and Harry’s among them.  “I don’t like girls,” he mumbles.

                The Nazi stiffens.  “Y-you won’t turn me into a queer like you.”  His voice isn’t as strong as it once before.  “You won’t.”

                Folding the bread neatly, he spares a look at the soldier, “wasn’t my intention”.

                This seems to calm him, helps his joints relax, and his stiff back to hunch slightly.  “Give that to them little boys, one for each of you.  I couldn’t give you more.”  The man gets dangerously close.  Harry almost thinks this is a joke.  “But if you tell anyone-”

                “ ‘M gay, not stupid,” and that’s really not an appropriate time for a joke, nor is it the right one considering the man before him, but really, the words just sort of flooded his mouth, and he was going to drown if he didn’t release them.  “Thank you.”

                “Don’t,” the man warns.  “I’m not some… _queer sympathizer.”_

Harry won’t argue.  A pause passes presumptuously between the two, because Harry should be on his hands and knees with appreciation, but apparently he doesn’t want that.  “I’m Harry,” he breaks the tension, only to see the Nazi turn fierce.

                “I don’t want to know.”

                He crumbles within himself, Harry does, shrinking against the wall.  He’s triggering it.  For some unexplainable reason, Harry brings out the best and worst in the boy.  So he just leaves, hoping to communicate his thanks with his eyes.  But before he goes the boy stops him.

                “Louis,” he whispers, pleading with the boy to understand, though even Louis doesn’t know why.  “But you can’t call me that.”

                And then Harry knows he has to go.

~  ~  ~

                Whispered assurances,

                _“I’m okay, I’m okay.  You two are stuck with me for a long time.”_

Gentle touches to insinuate calm,

                _Harry runs his hands against their bald heads, “you were so good.  So good, and I’m fine.”_

Teasing to try and remember how to smile again,

                _“You two need a haircut,” and he almost grins at their laughter._

Thoughts over a boy in a place he doesn’t belong,

                _Harry’s enthralled by him, he realizes, Louis.  But he’s the enemy.  He’s the enemy, and Harry’s job is to protect himself, and Michael, and Daniel.  Bread doesn’t change that._

_But those eyes._

~  ~  ~

                Harry is getting thinner.  He was already scarily thin at the start, but now what little fat he possessed has faded.  Even his legs, which had always been slender, have no become knobby twists of bone.   He begins to become frightened that if a breeze were strong enough, it could knock him off his feet.

                Steadily, Louis makes his presence known.  It’s not friendly, but it’s different than the odious glances and detestable frowns that the other soldiers give him.   He hasn’t looked at him like that one day, like he was worth something, almost, but Harry can feel it pricking at the surface.  That maybe if Harry got close enough, he could coax it out of him.

                It begins by stuffing bread in his hand as he passes, on the days Harry thinks he’ll faint from malnourishment.  It’s always warm, always heats his fingers almost deliciously so, and there is always enough for him, Michael, and Daniel to share.   And Harry appreciates that, he really does, but sometimes, even the brush of their fingers feels nice.  It’s never for more than a few seconds, yet in those moments it feels… different…almost weird.  Like a current of warmth races through their touching tips but quickly rushes back.

                He can’t decipher it as attraction, or even thankfulness, it’s just comfortable.  That if he decided to lay their hands against each other, it wouldn’t be weird at all.  Then realization pricks against his memory, forces him to remember that that’s not right, because Louis kills people for no reason, people like Harry.

                But he chooses not to reflect on that most days.  He accepts the attention for what it is, and is thankful on the days he can give more to the two little boys he’s taken under his wing.  They always feel extremely guilty for taking Harry’s food, until he pokes what should be his belly and teases them about wanting to maintain his figure.  On those days, Harry wonders about Louis, wonders what would have transpired between them if the world wasn’t so cruel.

                Louis can’t always be there for him though.  He can’t always be the hero.

                Harry is walking, back hunched, face down.  He’s discovered that if you look defeated they leave you alone.  Whether that’s pity, or a sadistic need to quench any type of hopefulness, he’s not sure.

                But Harry’s a thinker, so Harry gets curious, which is why his eyes are directed at the two men in front of him.  Clad in the luscious fabric of their uniform, they look comfortable, warm.  Harry stays in his mind, keeps his jaw locked as it belongs, and just watches.  Watches how they interact.

                The look they share is anything but a cold glance.  Maybe it isn’t fond per say, as friends so often look at each other, but it’s warm.  In this cold, harsh snow, he’s found another cackling cinder, this one a lethargic flicker that maintains its desolate existence.  These two men have no intention of sharing their warmth.

                He gazes, eyes transfixed on the shape of their faces.  They aren’t smiling, Harry doesn’t think it’s possible to smile here, but they are close.  The tips of their mouths are curved like hooks to the side, almost bashfully so.  Swollen cheeks are pink by the nip of the cold, but neither care.  They seem like normal lads at that moment.  Like Harry and his friends.

                _“You are such a girl,” Edward teases, shoving Harry playfully.  He just rolls his eyes, focusing on the ball Ed is passing between his feet.  “Seriously, you can’t say things like that Harry.  You sound like a right git.”_

 _“What, just because I like reading things other than primers, I’m a girl?  Least I don’t_ sing.”

                _Ed stops, eyes screwed together in such a way that it’s anything less than threatening, “you making fun of me, Styles?”_

_He grins cheekily, his ten year old self bubbling with an innocent happiness.  “What if I am?” Ed smiles right back before charging towards him, leaving his ball forgot in the snow.  And their laughter is naïve, a blissful tingle that prickles at their skin that fills them with balminess even after they go their separate ways._

Harry and Ed could be them he thinks.  And that might be the scariest thing of all.

                Before he can dwell on it more, they notice him standing there.  He feels wariness shudder through him in paralyzing surges, and he knows too late to keep his head down.  When he tries to do so, they’ve descended upon him.   It was a private moment.  He shouldn’t have looked.

                They don’t offer any explanation, Harry doesn’t really need it.  Instead they strike him repeatedly, murmuring horrible obscenities in his ear.  About how he doesn’t deserve to live.  About how God doesn’t even want him.  And maybe he starts to believe them.

                A particularly hard blow to the gut leaves him dizzy, causes him to vomit out the little food he’s collected within his stomach.  He can feel the sting of something against his back, something that feels like a knife as it slices through his skin.  Harry has to fight back the tears that itch in his eyes.

                Then Louis is there, a blinding, bright flare, and Harry lets himself believe that Louis’s going to save him.  The pain will end now because Louis is here.  He’s surprised that when the other two egg him on, he obliges, smacking Harry so hard against the cheek that he almost feels ashamed for even thinking this boy ever liked him.

                They torture him till he’s black and blue, till he’s shaking from the force of it all, and his head is throbbing from the blows.  It’s even worse because he let himself trust, just this once, and he was let down without another thought.

                Harry’s being dragged; he can feel the dirt as it enters his wounds.  He cries out in pain, until he finds they are descending toward the alley again.  It’s small, between two bungalows, and it smells bad and looks worse, but a day ago Harry had looked upon there with nostalgia.  Now it just feels like a lie.

                When they stop, Harry expects the worst.  It’s easier that way.  He thinks of the little boys he’ll leave behind, the ones who _need_ him.  The dreams and aspirations he’s procured within his mind dissipate easily as he looks at the walls he’s surrounded by.  He even thinks of his sister, sitting beside his mother in a rocker, muttering under her breath about him being a loser.

                Harry expects everything except the gentle caress of fingertips against his skin, tracing the contours of his bruises like pieces of delicate glass.  Nor does he expect it when the soldier picks him up, cradles him in a graceful embrace that feels so comforting that Harry lets the tears fall.  Louis hides them behind a box of sorts, embracing Harry in a sideways hug.

                He kisses his forehead, delicately, not saying a word as he rubs at Harry’s scalp.   For some reason he intertwines their fingers and the boy cannot sobbing.  Because if this is a joke, Harry doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it.

                “W-Why-” Harry tries to start, but Louis hushes him.

                “Don’t ask me,” his tone is harsh, before he relents to gentleness, “please don’t ask me because I don’t know.”  Harry nods, terrified to move.

                Louis senses this.  He moves Harry’s head to his shoulder, gets a better grip around his body, and even places _another_ kiss to the bridge of his nose.  He murmurs things in Harry’s ear, nonsensical things that shouldn’t be coming out of his mouth, but that feel so right at the same time.  “Don’t cry.  Oh, please don’t cry.  You’re so pretty.  I’m so sorry.  I’m so _so_ sorry.  You’re so strong.  I, I care about you, so please don’t cry.”

                “Y-you hurt me,” Harry says.  “You hurt me, but now you are being nice to me?”  For some reason, that comes out as a question.

                “I am,” Louis’ hot breath fans over his face, slowly entices the chills back out of his body and into the air.  “And I don’t know why, but I’ll be nice to you whenever I can.”  He brushes his digits over his forehead.  “You had curls. I remember.”  He runs his hand down Harry’s face.  “I wanted those curls.”

                Harry can’t shake the fear that’s twined itself in his stomach.  “Is this more punishment?  For being gay?” 

                Louis looks appalled, hurt even, and grips Harry tighter, yet still gently as if not to break him.  “Oh no.  No.”  He pulls back to look into his eyes.  The emerald flickers, even when he is upset, like a sparkling gem that Louis doesn’t deserve.  “I-I,” he looks at Harry helplessly, “that was me being fake I think.   And I’m pretty sure this is me being real.”

                The boy in his arms shakes again, and _God,_ that hurts Louis.  He has every right to be scared, and Louis hates that too. “Do,” a pause, “do you want me to let go?”  He asks, but Louis doesn’t want to.  He doesn’t want the inferno that’s detonated within his breast to dim, but he can’t make this about just him.  For once, he can’t.

                Harry seems even more scared at that notion it seems.  Bravely, he snuggles in Louis’ chest, his too thin arms winding around his torso. “Please don’t let go.  If this is real, please don’t leave me for a while.”

                So Louis doesn’t.  Despite the fact that the wrongness of what is transpiring between them is gnawing at his consciousness, despite the fact that getting so close to this boy could get him killed, even though everything he’s been taught is against _this,_ Louis refuses to let go.  Because somewhere from their first, scary conversation, to the searching looks in Harry’s eyes, he’s grown an attachment, a carnal need.

                “We can be friends, can’t we?  I can keep you alive, and bring you food, and watch over you.   We could meet during the night.  I could hold you when things get rough.  I could make sure no one hurts you.” 

                Harry feels a blaze burning hotly across his body.  Louis is the enemy.  Yet Louis is offering to protect him, to be his _friend._

So maybe he’s the enemy, maybe this story has no chance at a happy ending, maybe it goes against everything Louis and Harry are fighting for.   But this feeling, this boiling of emotions that happens when Louis gets that soft look in his eyes, like he does now, it sure doesn’t feel anything like wrong.

                “I’ll protect you.”  And Harry knows.  That maybe this is a sin, to be friends with a man like him, but all he can focus on is the warm goose bumps he gets when Louis trails his hand up and down his arm.

                “We can be friends.”

 ~  ~   ~

                The days become bitter, yet Harry doesn’t.  He instead becomes a beacon of light in the camp, his generosity stirring hope in forgotten infidels.  Everything thing he is, everything he has, shifts to being the will to protect the two little boys who’ve captured his heart.

                “What are we going to do, when we leave?” seated in Harry’s lap, Daniel snuggles up to him, his words a faint whisper.  The ‘if’ has long since faded in the question.

                Harry wipes the tresses of dirt from off of his face.  Michael has gone to sleep; his hands wound around Harry’s neck.  “We’re going to have a farm,” he decides.  “Our house won’t be very big, but we won’t need it to be.  It’ll be nice and cozy.”  He kisses the top of his head, like something a father would do.  “You’ll be so happy.  I’ll spoil you.”

                “Sing please,” Daniel coos, “I can’t sleep without it”.  As Harry cradles him, massive hands expanding over his back, he can’t help but let his lips curve slightly, teasing at a smile. 

                “Okay, still the same song?  I know other ones you know.”

                Daniel shakes his head.  He sighs before he speaks, “no, it’s a tradition now,” and then he yawns, “so you have to sing that one”.  Nuzzling his head slightly into Daniel’s head, Harry runs his hands up and down Michael’s back, singing softly, lowly, repeating the lyrics of a candle that burned brighter than any other.  They fall asleep at ease, just like he knew he would.

                The next time he looks up he sees Louis, waving his arm to try and get his attention.   Harry’s gaze falls upon the two sleeping boys, and though he doesn’t want to, he lays them each down, kissing their foreheads.  They have to use each other for warmth, and Harry vows to make this conversation quick.

                Harry hurriedly makes his way outside the holding center, treading lightly so he doesn’t make any noise.   He can’t see Louis, but he knows where he will be.  Carefully, the familiar paranoia broiling in his bones, he makes his way towards the forgotten alley.  He has a slight scare when a Nazi walks past him, but he doesn’t notice him.

                His heart is still thundering when he finally walks farther down.   “Louis?”

                He can’t help the large exhale as a body crushes against his torso.  Harry’s too nice to say anything, but the pressure is even uncomfortable at first because his bones are unable to withstand the impact.  It fades when he recognizes the niches and curves that are Louis’ form, and soon he’s returning the embrace.  Louis gets like this sometimes.  He goes through periods where he has to touch Harry, coddle him, maybe in a way that’s more than just friends but Harry doesn’t mind.

                Before Harry can question why, Louis is already speaking, “I heard what you said to them”.

                “Yeah?”

                “About the farm, and the house.  God, I bet you even meant it too.  Didn’t you?”

                Harry runs a hand up and down Louis’ back.  The way his fingers glide across Louis’ skin seems almost familiar, like he’s been doing to for years.  “Course I did.”

                Suddenly fingers are resting against his face, digits that should be unfamiliar seeming to slot perfectly in the dips of Harry’s cheeks.  His hearts flutters in an arrhythmic pattern at the feeling.  “But…you can’t know that you’ll survive.  You can’t.  They’ll kill you eventually.”

                The confession stalls his heart beat completely.  He shoves Louis’ hands away.  “I may not know Louis, but that’s called faith.  Something you kill people for.”  Harry’s walking on thin ice, he knows, he knows he can make Louis snap, yet he still can’t keep his mouth shut.

                Louis surprises him though.  He curls into himself, wrapping his arms around his chest.  It’s so different from usually firm, confident stance.  “I didn’t mean to upset you.   I just, Harry I’m terrified for you because I don’t know how this is going to end if you don’t make it.”

                Harry melts instantly like a puddle of warm, drippy goo.  “Look Louis, I don’t know how this is going to pan out.  But… I believe it’s going to go good.”  He sighs heavily.  “It’s not about me anymore though, or else I would have given up a long time ago.”  His gaze drifts towards where he knows Daniel and Michael are sleeping.  “It’s about them.  It’s about me protecting them.”

                A silence passes between them, an uncomfortable one.   Only then does Harry feel the arms around him again, luring him into a state of comfort.  “That’s why it’s my job to be the one protecting you.”

                They stand in each other’s arms.  Breathing heavy, panting for a reason they don’t even know, they feel completely enthralled.  The weight of each other is enough to great a conflagration between their bodies.  It leaks and puddles at their feet, the steam incasing them in a bubble of warmth.

                A force they can’t fight pulls them together.  A magnet.  A force of gravity.  An overwhelming attraction.  Soon their lips are impossible close; if Harry moved even a little they’d be pressed together.  Both are nervous, scared.  Harry thinks Louis will take the plunge.

                He doesn’t though.  It seems the warm, soft, pliable Louis has faded once more, immersed himself back into the unforgiving slush of apathy.  “Get the _hell_ away from me.  You queer.”  Then suddenly he’s shoving Harry, pushing him to the ground, his kind words from before immediately forgotten.  He straddles his thighs, ignoring the trembling boy underneath him. “You won’t turn me into you.  I won’t be like you.”

                Harry can’t speak.  The words are frozen on his tongue.   Instead he lets tears drip from his eyes.   It burns, his words scorch him, like an icy scald.   Louis continues.  “You’re worthless.  Utterly worthless, and I hate you.”  He leans over him.  “Thought you’d turn me gay like you?  Believed my lie when I said I’d protect you?”  His fingers dig into Harry’s shoulders as he ruts him into the ground.  “Admit it, admit how insignificant you are.  Admit how not one single person cares about you.”  The next words blister.  “Admit I don’t care about you.”

                He’s shaking, trembling, crying, maybe sobbing.  He’s so stupid.  So, so stupid.  Louis doesn’t like Harry’s silence, so he makes painful marks against his skin.  Making sure Harry will bruise.  “I can’t hear you.”

                “I-I’m w-worthle-ss and n-no one care-s-s about m-m-me.”  Harry looks him in the eyes, shaking his head, aching because he’s so stupid.  “N-not even you.”

                Louis jumps off him and walks away, leaving Harry confused and broken.  When his sobs subside he leaves the alley and sneaks back inside.  And then he cuddles the two boys, wishing to believe that Louis is wrong, and that maybe they can care about him.

~  ~  ~

                The Nazi, ‘blue eyes’, doesn’t even look at him after that.  It’s back to how it was before, Harry completely on his own.  Slowly his body deteriorates, until his ribs are visible underneath his translucent skin, he has no trace of muscle, and his legs can barely support his weight.  Harry is finally almost completely dead.

                Harry wonders if this is what Louis had in mind.  To lure him to comfort with fickle flames and burning caresses, only to release an icy breath when it was at its peak.  He thinks that’s worse.  He must have been so wrong about that look in his eyes.

                Michael notices, of course he does.  He’s resigned, like he was when he first met Harry.  Michael let himself believe in Harry, trusted him, but now he’s letting him down.  And that’s the one thing he didn’t want to do.

                Now Harry’s let his hope dwindle.  He thinks when Louis beat him, his fight spilled out of him like his blood.

                He thinks it’s days he spends in infidelity.  He has no hope.  His faith has been squashed.  It doesn’t seem important that he’s the one who’s dying though; he’s more ashamed that he’s let those two boys down.  Those two boys who he’d die for, and it seems that he’s going to.

                So when death taunts Harry, he sings as hard as he can, lets the notes ring from his cracked, hoarse voice.  He hugs them so tight it must be uncomfortable but they won’t complain.  He peppers them with kisses that are glorified promises that he can’t keep.  And he murmurs I love you, because that feels right.

                The last thing he wants to do is confront Louis.  It’s the last hope he clings to.  That maybe by witnessing Harry’s death, he’ll change.   Maybe he’ll look after Daniel and Michael.  All he knows is that this is important.

                Louis sees him as he stumbles towards the alley.  Harry can’t even hold himself upright anymore, his legs have shrunken so much.  His whole body is caving in on itself.              

                They stop at their spot.  Harry’s swaying from side to side, almost drunkenly.  “You killed me,” and God, his voice is frail.  “I trusted you, and you killed me.”  His eyes flutter closed.  “Some protector you were.”

                Louis speaks.  “W-what?”

                Harry grins, but it’s not happy.  “What, you thought I could survive?”  He moves on leg experimentally.  “I’ve got no body left to survive on.  You’ve broken me.  I’ve got no hope left.  I’m done.  Louis, _sir,_ you’ve got what you wanted.”

                “D-Don’t say that.”

                The boy lazily opens his eye lids.  “I’m not getting fooled this time.”

                “This isn’t a joke, Harry.”

                Suddenly he’s fuming, his insides a cataclysmic explosion.  “Can’t I die in peace?  Do you have to torture me too?  Are you really-”

                His words are interrupted by the smash of lips on his, molding into his own with ease.  Louis becomes his support as he holds him around the waist, steadying him as his knees start to wobble.  Unrelenting, Louis presses himself closer, and closer, a fire surging in his veins.

                Gone are flickers, embers, and slow cackles, their kiss is passion in its hottest, whitest form.  Harry is left numb by the tingling that not only occurs in his lips, but everywhere else too.  Louis’ fingers dance up and down his sides, and they realize this is how it should have been the first time.

                Louis pulls away, panting, but that doesn’t stop him from talking.  “I was scared.  Doing this with you goes against everything I believe in.” Louis goes in for a peck, but becomes intoxicated by the smoke of Harry’s lips.  He kisses him far longer than necessary.  “Harry, I’ve done horrible, unspeakable things.  I’ve killed people.  Hundreds, probably thousands of people like you.”  He pulls back, staring straight into his eyes, the ones that lace his insides with bubbling adoration.  “Harry, I’ve done so much wrong.”

                Harry’s quiet for a moment after that, still not having recovered.   He’s a thinker, and his words are lost in his mind.  And the next thing he says can’t possibly truly reciprocate what he really means, but he hopes Louis can connect the dots.  “I don’t think it matters how much you’ve wrong you done,” he breathes heavy, almost into Louis mouth, “because maybe you’re different.  Maybe you’ll fix it with doing things right.”

                The smoldering look Louis gives him says a number of things.  “You’ll just be the one thing that I do right then.”  And his lips descend upon his again.

~  ~   ~

                Hands held in a dark place,

                _“They fit together,” Louis remarks, smiling to himself, “perfectly”._

White foggy breaths in the middle of the night,

                _Harry has his hands wound around his neck with Louis’ arms encircling his waist.  They are silent, but it’s somehow better that way._

Mumbles of an impossible fantasy,

                _Louis runs his hands down his face, “how many people can live in that little farm house of yours?”_

Brushes against scars and bruises,

                _“I’m so sorry,” Louis lips quiver, “Harry, I’m so sorry”.  He lifts him with ease, resting him against his torso.  “I’m here now.”_

A calm voice in a hurried frenzy,

                _Louis closes his eyes, running his hands up and down his sides, “I’m here Harry.  For as long as you want me.  Don’t you ever worry about that.”_

_But Harry can’t help it._

~  ~  ~

                He’s walking back when he feels _it._   It’s an algid twinge that freezes fear permanently into his skin.   The feeling is cold.  Unforgiving.  _Scary._

So he walks a little faster, the cold nipping at his toes almost tauntingly, and though it strains the bones of his legs, he presses on.  Harry’s never gone on pure instinct before, but it seems important now.  Like if he doesn’t get there soon, he’s going to miss something.

                Not fast enough for his liking, he’s back at the bungalow.   The twinge is now a pang.  It hits him hard in the chest, ricochets around until he’s frozen in the darkest form of fear.   Something’s happened. 

                Harry hates how he’s right.  He hates how he sees Michael, rocking back and forth, hands firmly planted over his ears as he chokes on the force of his own sobs bubbling up his throat.  His face is flushed red from the force of it all, and it barely takes Harry a second to rush over to him.

                The voice that leaves his lips doesn’t sound like his own.  It’s wavering with pure terror at the sight of the boy.  His hands grab at empty air, heart hammering in alarm, afraid to touch the boy who is now shaking his head.  “Michael.  Michael, what happened?”

                Michael can’t hold himself upright after that.   In a steady motion he wings himself to the side, trying to lie down, but almost falling off the bed.   Thank God Harry’s senses are still acute, because he catches him before he falls.  Taking the opportunity, he cradles the boy against his breast, only to yelp in pain when Michael digs his fingers into his skin, trying to get as close to him as possible.

                “You have to talk to me,” he breathes, cuddling closer to the boy, heart paralyzed.  “Please?  You have to talk to me.”

                A new type of chill settles in his system.  “Michael, where’s Daniel?”  The boy starts to scream and kick then, fighting desperately for Harry to relinquish his hold.  But Harry’s stronger, and he manages to calm him by embracing him and whispering in his ear.  “Please calm down Michael.  It’s Harry.  Don’t fight me please, I want to help you.”

                Finally, Michael is responsive.  After ducking into Harry’s neck, he slowly races his hand to point under the bed, arm wobbling in the air.  Harry keeps one arm around the boy’s back, and uses the other to crawl across the floor.  Only faintly, because it’s hopelessly dark under the bunker, can he make out the outline of a frigid, shaking Daniel.

                “Daniel?” Harry’s voice is nothing but soothing, trying to entice him into answering.  “It’s H-Harry.  Um, could you come out here please?”

                The little boy makes no movement whatsoever, except the rickety quake of his shoulders.   Harry runs his stray hand on his head, suddenly wishing he had curls just so he could have some way to occupy his fingers.  “I’ll just hold you.   Please, darling,” and for once, it doesn’t feel wrong to Imitate his mom, because his mom would have known how to console him.

                Daniel turns on his side to face Harry, anything except the outline of his body still undistinguishable.  His fingers twitch a little bit, as if he’s debating whether or not to come.  After a few moments, he scuttles towards Harry, having to squeeze through the tiny gap between the bed and the floor.

                Harry doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this.  Because Daniel is bleeding, _everywhere._ There are unsightly gashes riddled across his body, sickly sores from infections he’s developed, everything about him screams pain.  “Oh Daniel, come ‘ere.”

                It seems any protest has faded, because Daniel quickly moves into Harry’s arms.  He takes a similar position to his brother, bearing his face in his neck and clasping Harry’s chest tightly.  It hurts, but he won’t stop him.  Wouldn’t dream of it.

                He lets Michael whimper into his neck, tears slick against Harry’s skin, before he moves down to huddle into Harry’s lap.  They don’t speak for a long time, before the older one leans to brace Daniel against him more.   The little boy makes a frightening, heart breaking cry, one that rings in the air like hail hitting the ground, and tries to get away.  Quickly, Harry moves his hand, kissing Daniel repeatedly until he calms down.

                When he pulls away, he sees it, feels it.  Blood coats his hand, seeps through his fingers dramatically, before dripping loudly onto the floor.  _And that blood is Daniel’s.  Blood from Daniel’s…_

And Harry’s a thinker, so everything in Harry’s mind clicks.  That’s when the resolve, the strength, the ability to remain calm passes, and Harry lets himself cry, _sob,_ because this is fair.  This isn’t right.

                Because a little boy shouldn’t have been raped, and his brother shouldn’t have had to watch.

                Harry’s may be smart, but he’s got absolutely no thought in what he’s supposed to do.  Daniel needs medicine, bandages, some place to _heal,_ and Harry can’t provide him any of that.  He’s tried to give him everything, but he can’t.

                So Harry’s brain flits to the blue-eyed boy who’s saved him so many times before, and he prays, actually prays, that he has something to make this better.  When he moves both boys cry harder, and Harry has to remind him that this is _Harry,_ and Harry’s going to save them.

                For once in his life, Harry can’t remember.  He can’t remember his frantic footsteps against the dirt, the pounding in his chest as he runs to the alley, nor the hiding from guards.  Harry can’t remember anything, for once, until he sees Louis.

                He’s beaming at him, until he sees the frenetic look that’s swirling in his irises.  Immediately he’s at Harry’s feet, looking between the boys with worry.   He only reaches up to wipe the tears from Harry’s eyes before he asks, “What happened?”

                It’s choppy, his response.  He can’t exactly get his words out like he should, but thankfully, Louis understands.   Louis doesn’t give Harry time to think before he’s leaving, promising to be back soon.  Harry doesn’t know what to think, but he obeys, cuddles the two boys to him with everything he has.  They don’t move, and Harry likes to pretend that they’ve fallen asleep.

                When Louis finally returns, it’s with a bag in tow.   He kneels down on the ground, coating his uniform with dirt.  He motions for Harry to do the same as he reaches inside the satchel.  Pulling out a thick roll of bandages, he gestures for Harry to give him the boy.

                He doesn’t comply at first.  “Harry, I have to patch him up.  At least stop the bleeding before morning.  Give ‘em here.”

                “I-I don’t know if he’ll like it.  He barely let me touch him.”  Louis seems to understand, yet still comes closer.

                He clears his throat.  His voice is softer than Harry’s ever heard it.  “Hi Daniel.  I’m Louis.  I know this is confusing, and you’re hurt, and that I look like a bad guy.  But right now, I’m going to act like a good guy.   You trust Harry right?”  Daniel doesn’t respond, but Louis keeps going.  “Harry is going to trust me right now because he’s going to give you to me.  I’m just going to put bandages on you to try and stop the bleeding.  I can’t let you keep them, but they’ll help for a little while.  Is that okay?”

                Still, he doesn’t respond.  Louis gives him a sad look, one of empathy and absolute regret.  “I’m going to touch you now.  If you want me to stop you tell me.  We’ll figure this out.”  He reaches out and gently, makes contact with the boy’s pale skin.  Though he flinches, he doesn’t move away anymore.  Louis grabs him round the waist, slowly, carefully, before placing him in his lap.  Daniel only cuddles in further, releasing his first words of, “please”.

                Louis gently strokes the fuzz that’s grown on his head.  “Okay, honey, I’m right here.  Where does it hurt?”

                “Inside of m-me.  A-And on my tummy.”

                “Okay, well I’m going to clean your tummy, okay?”  Louis keeps stroking his skin as he reaches back into the bag.  He pulls out more bandages, and then something covered in cloth.   He looks at Harry helplessly.  “This in no way makes up for the situation, but,” he unfolds it with one hand.  “I-I don’t know.  They are sweet, and kids like sweet things, and Michael…he looks traumatized and so _little_ and I just thought maybe…”

                Harry nods, takes it, and turns to Michael.  “Hey, are you hungry?”  Michael turns to shake his head yes.  “Okay, well look, Louis got you something.  It’s not just bread either, he says it’s sweet.  Do you think you can stomach it?” 

                Michael turns at that moment, eyes widening in mortification as he sets sight upon Louis.  “No, no, no, no please don’t let him hurt me.  He’s the man that hurt me.”  Harry’s insides go cold, and he closes his eyes.  Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Louis wasn’t always like this.

                Louis looks frantic.  “No, I know.  I’m so sorry.  Please, I’m not like that anymore.  I’m not-”

                But he doesn’t let him continue.  “Please don’t let the bad man hurt me.”  Harry pulls Michael away, finding it sad that he has to convince himself that Louis’s a good guy now.  Louis may have been evil, but he came back.

                “Sh, listen to me Michael.  Don’t cry, or try not to, just let me talk to you.”  He takes a steady breath, rubbing patterns into the little boy’s back.  “Louis, first of all, is very sorry.  He’s more sorry than he’ll ever be able to tell you.  Right?”

                “Oh God, yes.  I’m-”

                Harry cuts him off again.  “You know how when all this started, people started changing?  How the people you played with suddenly didn’t want to play with you anymore, and all the little old ladies you used to love said mean things to you?”  Michael nods.  “Well Louis’s like that, except different.”

                And he looks into those azure coloured eyes then, the ones that have tears lapping so that it truly does look like he has an ocean in his irises.  “Louis was a bad man, a horrible man even.  But then something happened.  Louis changed just like the soldiers, but now he’s good.  Now Louis helps us, and feeds us, and makes sure we are safe.”  Harry swallows.  “Louis’s a good guy now, and that’s why I care about him _very_ much.”

                Louis has only been strong when he’s with Harry.  He wears the tough guy façade with eagerness, ready to use his muscles and hard facial features the instant he needs him.  But when Harry’s words leave his lips, Louis turns softer than mush, the little frost he had tinged around his body melting completely.   He even cries, not harshly, but a few tears fall down his cheeks.  And this is the real Louis, the one Harry trusts and even adores.

                Michael turns to Louis, and they stare at each other for a long time.  Daniel seems to be satisfied with the explanation because now he even responds to Louis’ touch, curls into his stomach with almost the amount of trust he gives Harry.  Michael subconsciously leans back into Harry’s touch.

                “Okay,” he says quietly.  He gives Louis a look, something of a warning, before he gently takes the food in his hands.  “I want to stay with you though.”

                Harry nods, curling his body around Michael’s protectively.  “Of course buddy.  Absolutely.”  His hands don’t stop their motion, trying to warm him against the bitter wind.  “Can you eat for me though?  Please? I’m sure it will taste good.”

                He obliges, taking a piece and tentatively putting it into his mouth.   Michael almost smiles, _almost,_ and starts to get excited.  “My mommy used to make these!”

                And God if that doesn’t make Harry’s chest burn with love, “did she?  Louis picked good then, didn’t he?”

                The little boy is still tentative when he looks at Louis, but he just shoves more into his mouth.  Daniel whines at the pressure Louis applies but he shushes him gently.  “I’m so sorry, but I don’t want it to get infected.  Do you want to eat something too?  It’ll get your mind off it.”

                Daniel still isn’t okay, Harry knows he never will be, but that does seem to put a little colour back into his face.  “Okay.”

                “Okay,” Louis says, and gives him a cookie.  Harry looks upon them both in fondness, and though this is a horrible situation, even though Daniel still flinches and Michael cries from remembering, this night still glimmers like a sanguine flame.

                They sit for a long time.  None of the four exactly talks much, Daniel especially, he’s immobilized by fear.   It’s when Louis finally finishes and puts him over his shoulder that he says something.  “Can you sing to me?”

                Louis looks at Harry, a little bewildered.  “Harry’s the one that sings to you, right?”

                Daniel wraps his arms around his neck.  He’s reacted to the situation with a constant need of attention.  If Louis doesn’t look at him for more than a few seconds, he’s trying to get his attention again.  “Can you both do it?  Please.  I wanna go to sleep so it’ll stop hurting.”

                “I-I can’t, I don’t-” Harry gives Louis his best attempt at a comforting smile.

                “ _This little light of mine,”_ Michael sighs relieved.  Harry waits for Louis to take the hint.  His voice thaws a frigidity that’s been hanging in the air, and they scoot closer to each other. 

                “ _I’m going to let it shine…”_ He sounds nervous, but Harry is only encouraging.  So that the next verse, they both sing together, confidently.

                “ _This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”_

And Harry thinks that he could do this forever, singing with Louis to the boys that went from being his to _theirs,_ fighting the snow that’s trying to drag them under, but won’t succeed.

~  ~  ~

                Harry’s almost asleep, a protective arm slung around Michael and Daniel’s bodies.  In the dim lighting he can just make out the trail of dried up tears on Daniel’s face.  He’s barely slept since it happened, to see his heavy breathing is a miracle.

                His drowsy daze is interrupted by a slight tap.   He tries to ignore it, but he hears it over and over again, until he sees Louis peaking inside.  From the glint that shows in his eyes, even in the dark, Harry knows he’s nervous.  They can’t catch them.

                When he gestures for Harry to come, he wants to comply immediately.  But he can’t.  He doesn’t want to leave the two boys alone after everything that’s happened.  So he gestures down to them, but still Harry is relentless, and only complies at the exaggerated mouthing of “Couple of minutes”.

                Harry leaves kisses on each of their foreheads, something that he found calms them down, and lets them cling to each other when he leaves the bed.  His footsteps, as always, are hurried.  He can’t leave them alone anymore.

                He expects Louis to wait for him in the alley, but he doesn’t.  Instead he’s waited, and even intertwines their hands.  “Lou,” Harry starts, only to be tugged to their space.

                The second they are out of sight, Harry’s pressed up against the wall, Louis mouth on his, hungry for the taste of his him.  Harry can’t help but grin a little against his lips, other hand winding against Louis’.  Their lips feel like a combustion of overwhelming passion.

                When Louis pulls away, he grips Harry’s face with both of his hands.  He’s smiling, really smiling, his eyes alight with fiery warmth.  “What was that for?” Harry asks when he regains his breath.

                “I’m getting you out of here.”

                Harry blinks once.  This isn’t real.  He must be dreaming.

                “Don’t give me that look.  Harry, you aren’t dreaming.”  He pecks his lips, finding it hard to pull away.  “We are going to be safe, with Daniel, and Michael, and I’m going to get you that farm house you wanted.” 

                Harry has a thousand things to say, but he can only get out, “H-How?”

                And Louis can’t stop kissing him, he presses against his lips, then his cheeks, even placing one to his jaw.  “Truck’s leaving to take some people back.”  He wraps his arms around Harry’s waist.  “It’ll be tricky, but there’s a compartment.  A buddy of mine smuggled beer or something.  But that doesn’t matter because you’re getting out.  Harry, you’re going to be free.”

                He doesn’t move for a couple minutes.  Harry’s almost scared to let the feeling surge through his body, blistering his insides.  It’s an inferno of many different emotions, and Harry doesn’t even know what to say.

                Harry can only get out, “Why?”

                Louis senses his shock and kisses him again, moving his mouth against Harry’s even if he won’t respond.  And then he says something that ignites flames in Harry’s body that send smoke to his brain to fog his thoughts, and sends Harry’s mind into a frenzy.  “Because I love you.”

                The best part is that Harry doesn’t doubt it.  Those eyes are so truthful, so innocent as they burn radiantly in front of him, that he knows it’s true.  He doesn’t even think about it when he breathes against Louis’ lips, “I love you too”.

                He doesn’t question it as thankfulness, because Louis knows he means it.  He can feel it when Harry launches himself into Louis’ arms, using what little strength he has to wrap his legs around his waist.  Louis can feel it when Harry grabs at his hair and tugs his mouth to his with so much force that he has to push him back against the wall.  And he feels it through Harry’s tears that he tastes on his lips as he holds the best thing that’s ever happened to him in his arms.

                So enveloped in each other, they don’t see him.   The devil lurking in the shadows that’s suspected since the beginning.  The man who took a boy’s innocence without a second thought.  Louis supposed ‘buddy’, who was the enemy all along.

~  ~  ~

                He stands watching, the satanic figure that waits in the shadows.  The malevolent eyes he hides behind have been there from the beginning.  Louis and Harry have just been oblivious.

                _“Grab that one!” Nevin yells.  Dirt coated curly hair flings as he moves his hair from side to side frantically.  Harry’s trapped.  Nevin smiles._

Evil in its darkest form,

                _He’s got the baby’s arms around his fingers tightly, sneering at the mother.  She’s a sinner, so the baby is one too.  A voice nags at the back of his mind, and he turns to see the boy frozen, watching him.  The mother sees it too, and he takes advantage, tugs the infant from her grasps and says, “Sie haben es versäumt”. **You have failed.**_

Eyes transfixed on a munificent boy,

                _“Tell me why I shouldn’t fucking shoot you right now”.  Louis’ breathing is heavy; Nevin can hear it from his position on the other side.  The queer starts to back talk, and he gets this feeling in the pits of his stomach.  A sadistic need to see the boy’s blood spilled across the dirt.  He gets off on it, the thought of his cold, limp body._

_But Louis lets him go.  A wintry anger courses through him that causes his whole body to twitch.  He tries to fight it, and that one time, convinces himself that Harry will get what he deserves.  Just not right now._

Lies whispered through a sinful mouth,

                _“You see that boy,” Nevin’s chewing, spitting food out as he talks, “heard he’s turning guys like us.”  He takes another bite.  “Tryin’ to make ‘em think they’re damn homosexuals.  You best watch out for him.  Hell, I’d take ‘em out right away.”_

_Louis releases a breath.  “I don’t know…”_

_Nevin swallows thickly.  “You better watch out, sounds like he’s getting to you.”  His eyes widen in alarm._

_“What? No, of course not!”  Nevin shrugs._

_“I’m just sayin’ you better watch out.”  Louis’s packing up bread, putting it in a handkerchief.   “What? You haven’t had enough?”_

_Louis blushes.  “It’s, um, it’s for later.  I’ll, see you later.  Take care of yourself.”  But Nevin knows exactly where the traitor is going, and that makes him angrier.  He’ll have to end him himself._

Bruises against untainted skin,

                _Nevin pounds into Harry’s skin.  He’s smile, satanically, as his fist collides over and over again.  Harry’s moaning, groaning, almost crying, and Nevin’s never felt so good.  And then he sees Louis, treading over to him, so he gestures him over._

_“Come on, Louis.  Gotta teach him a lesson,” and then his foot collides with Harry’s ribs. “Don’t be a pussy, Lou, come on.”_

_Louis has no choice, and he knows it.  Nevin sees Harry’s face fall at Louis’ abuse, the fight fading in his eyes and he loves it.  Relishes in it.  When Louis drags him away, Nevin feels accomplished.  Maybe the bastard will die now._

Anger coursing through wicked veins,

                _They get closer.  Nevin sees it, the way they look at each other.  Harry’s turning his friend, and he won’t sit by and just watch it happen.  Apparently beatings by him don’t work._

_So Nevin corners Louis, grabs him by his shirt, and growls, “he’s got you, hasn’t he?”_

_“W-what?” And his nervous response says it all._

_“You’re one of them aren’t ya.”  He spits on Louis, pushing him father into the wall.  “The damned kids turned you gay.”_

_Louis tries to shove him away.  “No, no, no.  Of course not.”_

_Nevin, of course, sees through it.  He’s got his friend.  “You better teach him a lesson, or I will.  And I won’t be as nice as you.  Do you understand me?”_

_He’s stone faced.  “I’ll take care of him.  He won’t change me.”_

Empty threats becoming whole,

                _Every time they kiss, he sees it.  They are discrete to everyone else but him, and it drives Nevin crazy.  He’s got him.  He’s really got him._

_Nevin thinks he’s going to have to kill him himself when he hears it; Harry’s gentle croon of “This Little Light of Mine”.  He hears him whisper dirty truths about escape, and he gets so angry, he digs his nails into his skin until he draws blood._

_He knows what he has to do immediately.  So the next day, he recognizes the little boy.  He’s blonde, shining with purity, and Nevin hates that.  They are in line one minute, and the next he’s dragging them both into a housing unit._

_And he ties Michael to the bed and grabs the littlest one because that will hurt more.  He shoves him to the ground and pounds into him relentlessly.  Promising him that if either of them screams he’ll kill the other.  It hurts, God, it hurts, but he keeps going, thriving on the tears dripping down Daniel’s face.  He mumbles “Harry” over and over, and that only makes him more angry, so Nevin bites at his neck and then throws him aside.  Because now he’s going to kill them and Harry too._

The final straw,

                _“Because I love you.”_

_Nevin runs away because he won’t listen anymore.  He won’t listen to the queers kissing and being the sick things they are.  He’s furious, so furious he even mows a couple people to the ground with his gun, just for the hell of it.  Because this was not supposed to happen._

_He’s going to kill them both now.  Slowly.  Torture them.  Rip them apart.  Because sinners like them are a virus, and they aren’t allowed to live.  Harry and Louis will die._

~  ~  ~

                It’s the day they are going to escape.   Louis tries to downplay his worry.  He doesn’t look any of his fellow soldiers in the eyes, only glances at Harry, who completely understands, and maintains a coldness he’s purposely fought off.  He hates it though, doesn’t know how he put up with it for so long before.

                An hour, they have maybe an hour before the truck leaves.  Louis immediately goes the bunker where he knows the three of them are waiting, shifting in nervous trepidation.  He takes a deep breath, only to see the house is absent of Harry.

                “Hey you two, where’s Harry?”

                Daniel and Michael are still wary of him, not that he exactly blame them.  But he tries his hardest to be as friendly as possible.  They are quiet around him though.  “They took him to the showers.”

                For a second, Louis doesn’t get it.  But then he realizes what’s happening, and for a moment he’s completely **frozen.** A gelid inclemency that brings him panic, pain, and terror.  “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”  Louis looks at the two boys.  “Please, hide, I’ll come get you.   _Oh FUCK.”_

                He doesn’t spare another moment on those two, though he wants too, because Harry could be dead.  Harry is getting escorted to a gas chamber an hour before they are supposed to leave. _Harry.  Harry.  Harry._

Opinions, other people, Louis safety, none of it matters anymore.  Because he can’t do this without Harry.  Louis can’t live without Harry.  And Harry could be dead.

                “HARRY,” he’s screaming it at the top of his lungs, his feet pounding against the dirt and sending it flying against the air, “HARRY”.

                His heart is hammering, fragile as the ice begins to freeze against it.  He’s panicking, his throat is aching, his heart hurts, his knees are weak, his mind is spinning, and all he can do is tread on, sprinting, as fast as he can to the gas chamber.  Because they can’t take Harry, they can’t.

                When he reaches the gas chamber he doesn’t care about the other Nazis.  He doesn’t care that they are looking at him, scolding him, calling him crazy.  He doesn’t care because nothing matters to him anymore except saving Harry and those two boys.

                People are bewildered when he reaches the controls.  He throws back the lever, stops the gas from entering the chamber, and runs back inside.   Throwing open the door, he screams it again, his voice cracking hopelessly, “HARRY”.

                The smoke he inhales burns his lungs, makes him dizzy, but he presses on.  “HARRY, HARRY PLEASE ANSWER ME.  PLEASE, HARRY.”  People, other people, are crying too loud and he can’t hear.  “PLEASE, GOD, HARRY.  PLEASE ANSWER ME.”

                His heart stills.  No.  No.  No.  No.  No.  No.  Please no.

                Louis’ feet don’t still, in fact, he races faster.   Frost collects in his veins, and this time he’s screaming at God.  Making silly promises and trying to bargain, and for “Harry, to please be alive.  God, I’m a horrible person, but he doesn’t deserve that.  God, please.  Please don’t take him from me.  Take me instead.”

                And amongst the mound of bodies, the thousands of faces that will never show emotion again, he finds Harry, staring at him blankly.

                “No.”

                Louis’ legs still when he reaches his body.  He drops down on his knees, because he can’t take the force of the situation.  He can’t handle this, not even in the slightest.

                He takes Harry’s limp form, shoving off the bodies that cover it. “Please no.  Please, please, please, please.”  And he doesn’t know what he’s asking for because the boy is already gone.  He’s gone forever.

                “This isn’t _fucking_ fair,” Louis whimpers.  “You just had to live an hour.  A _fucking_ hour Harry.   We were going to be safe.” 

                Louis breaks down at that.  He tried to be strong, but it isn’t possible anymore.  It isn’t a few tears, it’s howling, and sniveling, and the inability to breathe because this hurts so bad.  _Harry isn’t alive anymore.  Harry’s dead.  An hour before they were supposed to start their forever._

“Wake up,” Louis snivels, running his hands over Harry’s face.  “Come on, baby, wake up.  You aren’t allowed to do this to me.  You aren’t allowed to leave us.  Do you _fucking_ understand me Harry? GET UP.”

                But Harry doesn’t.  His eyes remain staring blankly at a sight past Louis.

                “W-we were going to live in a farm house.  With rolling hills and bright, blue skies, and we were going to be happy.  So why did you have to go and die, huh?  Why did you have to do this?”

                The blue-eyed boy, the lonely one, the lost one, looks to the sky.  “Why did you have to take him, huh?  He never did a _fucking_ thing wrong in his life.  Out of all the other people, why did you kill him?  He had a future.  He was going to survive.”

                Louis looks at him again, runs his fingers down his now cold cheeks.  Frantically, his hands find Harry’s, fumbling with them eagerly.  He wills Harry to clasp them, to grab them like he used to, to _please_ be alive.

                “So you aren’t coming back.  You’re going to leave me with them.”

                Harry is still unresponsive, and Louis cries again when he thinks that now he always will be.  “That’s what you wanted though, wasn’t it?  You said you were saving them, but really you were saving me.”  Louis lets out a laugh, but not a happy one.  “I bet you knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”

                He leans his hand down, letting the tears slip onto Harry’s face.  “I won’t leave them,” he says quietly.  “I want to.  Harry, I want to be with you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.  But I can hear you, in the back of my mind.  You’re telling me not to let them down, and I won’t.”

                The kiss he plants on Harry’s head is almost nonexistent.  “I won’t let them down.  I’ll look after them.  I promise.  They’ll never be sad again, Harry, never, ever.”

                “I’m going to sing to you now, okay?  So I remember the words, so I can sing to them every night.   I will Harry.  I’ll sing to them every single day.  And you’ll be there with me, and you’ll be happy where nobody hurts you, and we’ll sing _this little light of-f m-mine, I-I-I’m g-gonna let it shine.  T-this little l-light of mine, I’m g-gonna let it shine, let it shine, l-let it shine, let it,”_ Louis breathes the word into his skin, “shine”.

                “I love you Harry.  I always will.  More than I’ll ever love anybody in my entire life.  And I can feel you.  I know you can hear this.  So I’m telling you, Harry, that I love you.  And I’m going to protect them till the day that I live.  I.  Love.  You.”

                Louis presses another one last kiss to Harry’s lips.  A peck because he can’t take the fact that Harry won’t respond.  “Goodbye”.

                It is finished.

~  ~  ~

                “Michael, Daniel,” his voice is still wavering from the tears.  When they get up from under the bed, he thinks they can tell.  So he doesn’t say it.  Because they do a second later.

                “He’s gone.”  It’s Michael.  Louis nods and cries harder, and for a second he forgets, he forgets that these aren’t really his kids because he grabs them by their shirts and tugs them to him.  It’s the first time they don’t fight him, instead they cling to him furiously, because somewhere, sometime, he came to mean as much to them as Harry did.

                Daniel speaks next.  “Does that mean we have to stay here?”

                Louis shakes his head.  “No, you are getting out of here.  You are getting that farm and that house, so help me.  You just get them with me.”

                And they both simultaneously say, “Okay”, and Louis accepts it.   He picks them up, one in each arm, and cuddles them closer. 

                “I am getting you out of here,” and all of them are still crying, because no one will ever replace Harry, but now, they have each other.

~ ~  ~

                Years later, Louis can remember running.  Him and his two boys are sprinting as fast as they can, trying to avoid the people looking for him.  Louis can remember faces, faces he’s neglected to notice that look hopeless, that have no hope.  He remembers praying that Michael and Daniel don’t remember them either.

                Before they can reach the truck, Nevin steps in front of them.  He’s wearing that smile, that smile that Louis’s grown to hate.  Because after all this time, he finally sees the truth.

                “Where you going, queer?” he sneers.

                “Get away.”

                “Or what, faggot, you gonna hurt me?”  He laughs.  “I’ve already hurt everyone else.”  He takes a step forward towards Daniel.  “Hey, you remember me?  Because I remember you, having my co-”

                “SHUT UP,” Louis’s screaming it now, at the top of his lungs, “DON’T YOU EVER SPEAK TO HIM AGAIN”.

                Nevin licks his lips, before latching onto it with his teeth.  “That’s what your boyfriend said, before I put him in the gas chamber.  ‘Don’t hurt Louis’, ‘Don’t touch him’, ‘I’ll fight you’.”  Nevin shrugs.  “I was glad to see the ‘em go.”

                Louis loses it at that.  He pounces at the man, losing Michael’s hand in process, and throws him to the ground.  Before Nevin can even react he’s pushing a gun to his head, breathing heavy.  “I’m going to end you.”

                “Go ahead.  Go ahead, kill me.  Bet those two will enjoy the show.”

                He looks back to see Daniel and Michael cowering in fear, grasping each other desperately, and closing their eyes.  And Louis knows he can’t kill him.  Not unless he wants to lose them too.

                But that doesn’t stop him from taking his gun and knocking him over the head.  If they want to escape he has to.   After he’s sure he’s unconscious, he leans in his air.  “I win.”

                The blue-eyed soldier runs back to the two boys.  He kneels before them, but doesn’t touch, not yet.  “When I said I was done killing, I meant it.  I just had to knock him out, so we could go home.”  Louis tentatively holds out his hand.  “Can we go home?”

                They take his hand with ease.

~  ~  ~

                “Sh, we have to be quiet.”

                Louis has his arms around the both of them.  They are cuddled against his chest, to avoid their heads banging against the surface of the truck floor.  Above them they hear conversation, but they do their best to tune it out.  “We are almost there, and then we’ll be free.  I’ll keep you safe forever.  I’ll look after you.”

                Daniel clings to him tighter, buries his face into Louis’ neck.   Michael breaths contently against his chest.  Daniel whispers in his ear.  “Can you sing to us, really quiet?”

                He hesitates.  “But Harry sang to you.  Isn’t that a Harry thing?”

                Michael leans up to speak into his ear.  Daniel and he are now on either side of him, embracing him like their life depends on it- which it really does.  “That night in the alley, it became a Harry _and_ Louis thing.”

                And Louis cries as he begins, and he thinks they cry too.  “ _This little light of mine…”_

~  ~  ~

                They wait nearly an hour after everyone has evacuated.  Then, Louis slowly pushes the slide on the floor out.  They drop down to the ground, Michael and Daniel on either side of Louis.  When they stand they realize that they are near a camp.

                Louis remembers running.  He remembers hiding behind crates for hours as they wait for people to pass.  He remembers seeing open air for the first time, the snow melting around them, as they witness their first sign of sun.  They no longer have to make artificial warmth inside of them; they can feel it on the outside too.

                And he remembers grabbing each of their hands, breathing heavily, and letting happy tears drip down his face as he mumbles,

                “We’re free”.

~  ~ ~

**Two Years Later**

                “What are we doing here Dad?” a nine year old Daniel, (who had to be renamed Niall when they came to America) asks.  Louis (who’s had to be renamed Zayn) is swinging his hand back and forth, smiling brightly.  Michael (Liam) is beside him, knowing eleven is too old to be holding your Dad’s hand, but does it anyway.

                “Visiting Dad, he’d want you to talk to him.”

                “Oh.”

                They stop at the grave then.

_Harry Styles_

_Beloved father and lover._

_1 February, 1925 – 27 March, 1944_

                They three sit down, Daniel in Louis’ lap.  He snuggles into him, definitely not the proper behavior of a nine year old, but at this moment, everyone can care less.    Daniel speaks first.

                “I miss him.”  Louis strokes his now fully grown hair, ruffles it back and forth.  “I know D- Niall.  I know.  But tell him that; I’m sure he can hear you.”

                “I miss you Dad.  Louis,” his Dad gives him a stern look, “ _Zayn_ misses you too.   So does _Liam._ I love you.”

                “Love you Harry,” Michaels says.  “ _Dad,_ ” he corrects afterwards. 

                Louis sighs.  “We all do.  But we aren’t going to be sad about it today.  We’re just going to talk, right?”

                “Right.”

                And they talk about nothing and everything and school and the big backyard they play in.  Just like Harry imagined.

~  ~  ~

**Eleven Years Later**

                “Dad?”  Michael finds him in the attic.  He’s curled around a chest, smiling fondly when he sees him decked out in his suit and tie.  “Can we talk?”

                “Nervous?” Louis smiles.  Michael nods frantically, so Louis holds out his arms, grinning knowingly.  “Alright then, come give Daddy a hug.”

                Michael rolls his eyes, but hugs him anyway.  He sits down on the floor next to him, and Louis wraps his arms around his shoulders.  He presses a kiss to the top of his head.  “Mm, this is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.  And you know it will be, you love Danielle _very_ much.  What’s the problem?”

                “It wasn’t the happiest day in your life.”

                Louis releases a breath.  “That’s different baby.  You know I love Eleanor very much.”

                “But not like Harry.”

                He curls his arms tighter around him.  “No.  Not like Harry.  But she’s been a very good mother hasn’t she?  You love her don’t you?”

                “Of course,” Michael presses in closer to his dad.  “But I sort of wish… you know…”

                “I wish he was here too darling.”  Louis can’t help but press another kiss to his baby boy’s head.  “He’s watching over you though, and you know it.”

                “Wish he was here though.”

                “I do too.  Oh you know I do.  But your marriage isn’t like me and Ellie’s.  You’re crazy about Danielle, I know you are.  As much as I loved Harry.”

                “Yeah.”

                “So what’s the problem?”

                Michael hesitates, puts his head on his father’s chest.  “What if me and Danielle, end up like you and Dad?  I-I know you do your best without Harry, but… I’m not as strong as you.”

                Louis breathes into his hair, letting a couple tears fall down his cheeks.  “I can’t give you any advice on that, baby.  But it’s sort of the price you pay when you fall in love.  Eventually, it’s going to happen.  B-but I can tell you right now, that you and Danielle are going to live a very long, very happy life.   You don’t need to worry about that for a long time.”

                “How do you know?”

                The father laughs steadily.  “It’s a father thing.”

                Michael seems to accept this.  He grins when Louis presses a kiss to his head.  “Who’s going to sing to me at night?  Dad, I can’t sleep if you don’t sing it to me.”

                Louis grins.  “Mm, well, you can call me every night.  I’ll sing it to you.  I think we both know my vocal chords ain’t what they used to be though.”

                “Doesn’t matter,” Michael mumbles.  “Love you.”

                “I love you too.  I love you both so much.”

                Before they can say anymore, Daniel comes bounding up the steps.  “Come on, Li, you’re going to miss your own wedding!”  He looks down at the both of them.  “Aw, no fair.  You can’t hug without me!”

                Louis rolls his eyes, “come here.  Daddy’s boys, I swear”.  Daniel comes scrambling towards them, taking joy in reclining himself against both their laps. 

                “Just how it should be.”

                They sit there for a few minutes, breathing, absorbing each other, before Louis sighs.  “Alright, you two head down, I’ll be there in a minute.”  He gives them each over dramatic kisses on the top of their heads.  “I love you.”

                “Love you,” they chorus together, bounding down the stairs.  Louis sighs, shaking his head.  When he can’t hear their feet anymore, he gets up steadily, looking at the chest in front of him.   Carefully he opens it, rummaging to the bottom. 

                He pulls out the Nazi flag, the red glaring at him, even after all these years.  The swastika is a little faded, but that doesn’t matter.   This isn’t a prize he’s keeping.  It’s a way to remember.

                The flag aches to hold, but it makes sure he doesn’t forget.   Makes sure doesn’t forget the man he once was, and the man he’s become, makes sure he remembers what he fought for, and all the people he left behind…

                But most of all, it reminds him of the curly haired, green eyed boy, he loved, and lost, even when the world told him it was wrong.

~  ~  ~

**_This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine._ **

**_This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine._ **

**_This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine,_ **

 

**_Let is shine, Let it shine,_ **

 

**_Let it shine._ **


End file.
